


The Curious Case of the Paternity of Ereinion Gil-galad

by elvntari



Series: Canonverse Tolkien [7]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexual Ereinion Gil-galad, Canonical Character Death, Fall of Nargothrond, Fan theories, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Havens of the Falas, Himring, Hithlum, Lindon (Tolkien), Nargothrond, Nirnaeth Arnoediad, Post-Nirnaeth Arnoediad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2019-08-05 23:53:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 27,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16377443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elvntari/pseuds/elvntari
Summary: Many theories circulate around Middle-earth about the parentage of the High King, and Gil-galad has heard them all. As he senses the end of an era with his reign (and his life) coming to a close he ponders on where it all began. What is the truth? Only one man knows, and it isn't him.





	1. Orodreth

**Author's Note:**

> All you need to know about this is that I've been wanting to do this for a while. Enjoy! (Hopefully will be posted to SWG in due course, but I'm tired and on holiday, so here and Tumblr is enough for now.)

The question wasn’t exactly one that he was unused to—of course, the topic had always been of some debate—but he always found that he hesitated, and struggled to answer. Which version of the story would he tell today? Which rumour would he feed, and which would he cast doubt upon? There were a million ways to spin it, and a million more to feel about each tapestry he wove with his retelling.

“So,” the elfling asked, grinning as if she had just found the secret stash of silver coins her mother had told her didn’t exist, “Who _is_ your father?”

And the safe answer, as always, was: “Orodreth.”

“Oh.” She looked disappointed and, sure, he felt bad, but there were adults and officials around, and he didn’t want to cause a stir by feeding her some scandal just for the sake of cheering her up. That would be irresponsible. Fun. So very much more fun than the answer he had to give, but the wrong kind of fun—the ‘you could lose all of your alliances and respect’ kind of fun.

“I know it’s not that interesting,” he apologised, crouching down to her level and lowering his voice, “but, if you want, you can make something much more fun up, and I’ll tell if that’s the _real_ truth or not.”

The kid grinned again and nodded. And, he couldn’t lie—he was curious about what her tiny mind was formulating within its walls.

The theories for his parentage had been numerous over the years, with heroes, and political scandals, and affairs (both official and unofficial). And then with more dangerous political scandals, murder, and star-crossed lovers from different worlds. So, _so_ many about star-crossed lovers from different worlds. It was a popular motif, he noted, and made for some of the more entertaining reads when people sent him letters containing their proposed theory, and asking if they were correct. However, the most popular—in part due to its convenience, and part due to his advisors pushing it relentlessly—was a rebuttal—the same one he had given that child (albeit his version was kinder) a stern, _“Don’t be silly, we all know his father is Orodreth, and that’s that.”_

And that _was_ that, and he didn’t ever refute that, even if occasionally he liked to go down to local pubs and tell the drunken that he was the secret lovechild of so and so, and so and so. So, Orodreth’s son he was, and that was final, because Orodreth wasn’t around to argue back. And, oh, he’d have argued back.

 

—

 

Orodreth hadn’t been sure what to think when he received upon his metaphorical doorstep a boy and a hastily thrown together letter from his distant, elder cousin.

_He’s a sweet kid. I promise he won’t cause you any trouble. Hope Finduilas is well—she was only a babe when I last saw her. Give your wife my salutations!_

_—Fingon_

_“What’s your name?”_ He had asked the child.

 _“Ereinion?”_ The child had phrased his answer as a question, and Orodreth had sighed, then ushered him in.

 _“You don’t know your name?”_ He had said, sitting him down with a mug of nettle tea—the boy looked exhausted; what had Fingon been thinking sending him on such a long journey without instructing him in advance to send anyone to greet him?

_“I don’t know what name I’m supposed to give you.”_

_That_ had piqued his interest. What child had to choose which name to give people when he greeted them? He considered writing to Fingon, but then remembered that he was still meant to be upset with him, and decided to ask ‘Ereinion’ himself what he meant.

 _“Well, my parents call me Ereinion,”_ he said, fiddling with his hands, _“But they always introduce me to people as Gil-galad.”_

_“Your parents?”_

_“Not parents!”_ He had added, covering his mouth. _“Caretakers.”_

 _“I see.”_ He decided not to press.

From that day onwards, Ereinion Gil-galad was his honoured guest, and he would let him follow him around Nargothrond, assisting him with his royal duties. It gave the boy something to do, and he had been in _severe_ need of entertainment; the second day he was there, he had caught him in the forges with Celebrimbor, trying a soft, delicate hand at metalworking, and then burning said soft, delicate hand badly enough that he had to keep it in salve and bandages for weeks after, and couldn’t write properly for a month. He would’ve told him off for being so reckless, but really the incident was Celebrimbor’s fault, and he got the feeling that Ereinion was already remorseful enough.

He learned quickly and he was an efficient worker: he read and wrote well, and his manners were impeccable; he would’ve made the perfect heir, and he would've been tempted to appoint him as such if he wasn’t certain Fingon had similar plans of his own for the boy.   _Ereinion, Scion of Kings._ It seemed that the poor dear was some sort of political plaything to his _caretakers_ (of whose identities he had a suspicion); perhaps he had been bred and raised specifically for politics, educated in all of the obscure arts that only a king would realise one needed education in. Gil-galad, it seemed, was a pawn in the game of Finwëan family power-grabs, and Orodreth couldn’t help but pity him.

Then word came of the battle.

It came in installations. The first was a report of the beginning, the second was a report of how badly things were going wrong, and the third was a list of the names of the people who had died and, at the very top, _His Majesty, High King of the Noldor, Fingon Nolofinwion._ Then there was a fourth notice—the coronation of _His Majesty, High King of the Noldor, Turgon Nolofinwion_ —and a fifth: _For the eyes of Gil-galad alone._ Orodreth did not recognise the hand in which it had been written in, but the boy had locked himself in his room for the past week and he didn’t think it would be a good idea to interrogate him. Instead, he handed him the letter and left him to his grief.

He was back to work the next day. Still teary, and his hands and breath still seemed to shake as he reached for quills to write with, and words to speak with, but he was awake, and alive, and working nonetheless. He had found it curious—Gil-galad had not been Fingon’s heir, else he would have been coronated in Turgon’s place, so who  _was_ he? How did he fit into all of this? He had spent hours in the record room, searching for any acknowledgement of the existence of an _Ereinion_ , and then of a _Gil-galad;_ all there was a were a few brief references in the births of children in Hithlum, but no parents were listed, and all he had was a mother-name.

 _“Gil-galad,”_ He had asked one evening—the night after Celebrimbor had left for Gondolin (the topic of fatherhood had been playing on his mind)—as the boy had been clearing up his work, _“Is Ereinion your father-name?”_

_“I don’t know my father-name.”_

_“How?”_

_“I just don’t,”_ he had sighed, _“Either I was never told, or I never had one.”_ He was clearly trying to play it off as if he didn’t mind, but it bothered the child. He had an idea.

 _“How about Artanáro? Rodnor?”_ The translation was almost shamefully quick in his head. No matter how many times he stubbornly told himself he found his native Quenya far easier, it was never true.

_“You’re giving me a father-name?”_

_“You need one.”_ And it was true. He did need one, and he also needed some sort of royal tie that was a little more substantial than being born in the same place that the king had ruled. That was, if he wanted to pursue the clear interest he was developing in politics.

 _“Won’t that make you my de-facto father?”_ The child had grinned, and Orodreth had seen that distinctly Fingon-esque spark of mischief in his eyes for the first time since they had met.

 _“Absolutely not.”_ But his mouth quirked.

Ereinion Gil-galad was not his son, but perhaps he was some nephew that he happened to be dearly fond of, and should he ever want to make a bid for the throne, he would back him wholeheartedly.

 

—

 

Gil-galad was not fond of such formal affairs; dinners where every attendee seemed to secretly want each other dead, but couldn’t afford to accept any level of insecurity from that great evil that seemingly lurked around every corner. Usually, he would ask Celebrimbor to come with him and to put on his ‘reformed Feanorian’ act—it tended to take the attention away from Gil-galad’s parentage, if only for until he finished his grand speech, by which time he would’ve run through all of the details of the usual story. _I was born in Nargothrond to King Orodreth, I am the younger brother of Princess Finduilas, and I lived there until it fell and I escaped. My childhood was very happy and there was nothing scandalous about it at all, please stop asking._ Occasionally, someone would ask why he was recorded as being born in Hithlum, and why plenty of people had seen him with Fingon, to which he would respond that he had been born on a visit and then sent there periodically to be educated.

It was boring, and there were discrepancies, but it served its purpose: he was the son of Orodreth, only remaining heir to the house of Finwe, and well-prepared for his role. Who would possibly dispute his claim? Elrond had never wanted to be a king, and Celebrimbor’s family had long been struck from the succession. And it wasn’t as if he didn’t _like_ the idea of being Orodreth’s son; he had been kind enough. Cold, sometimes, but kind nonetheless—he had even allowed Gil-galad the honour of acting as his scribe when his hand had healed.

Unfortunately, however, Celebrimbor was away, getting distracted by his work, and he had been left to face the interrogation alone.

“Well, hopefully, you have more sense than your father,” one of the eastern dignitaries raised his glass, smiling, and he felt that twinge of anger that he had long since learned to conceal. Instead of scowling, he smiled back. Ah, the fall of Nargothrond; that was where people found their interest in _Gil-galad, son of Orodreth._

“I hope so, too.”

He had still been young and unfamiliar with the land, even after so many years of living peacefully within its relative safety. He had certainly not been expecting an attack, and never one by a creature like _that._ People told stories of how bravely he fought, how he nearly gave his life to defend his beloved father, how many enemies he managed to take down, how many lives he saved, and how he had to be dragged away after being wounded to keep him from continuing to fight. Or at least, that’s how they told it.   

Really, it was more that complete chaos had erupted sometime in the middle of the night or the early morning, and he had barely had time to arm himself before the attack came, and then it kept coming, and then he was standing alone amongst the bodies of the people who had once been his companions, and staring down a beast of whose likes he had only heard about in reports on the Nírnaeth Arnoediad—reports which he had never listened until the end of, mind you. He had tried to stay cool, but there had been tears on his cheeks, and a tightness in his throat, and his hands shook so hard he was afraid he would drop his sword. He was not brave; he would’ve run if his feet hadn’t been stuck in their footprints. He had rushed forward to defend his king, just as he had been taught, and his king had ended up defending him. Orodreth had been kind.

Orodreth had felt guilty. It had been clear; he never seemed to show any emotions other than annoyance and boredom, but as he was dying he looked _guilty_. He apologised, over and over, and told him that he needed to go somewhere secure—that he was important—that his father would want him safe. Gil-galad had shaken his head: _“You’re more of a father to me, now.”_ Then Orodreth had smiled, stabbed him in the sword-arm, and told him to run as far and as fast as he could. It was only years later that he had realised that the wound was so that if the enemy caught him, he would be killed instead of enslaved.

He ran a hand over the mark on his forearm as he listened to the idle chatter (trade agreements and alliances—oh, the bore of politics), and wondered for the thirtieth time that week if he blamed Orodreth for that. If it wasn’t Orodreth, it was Mormegil, and if it wasn’t Mormegil, it was Finduilas, for falling in love with him, and then Orodreth, for caving to his daughter’s whims, and then Mormegil again, for being the cause of them. It was Mormegil. He blamed Mormegil. He had been hot-headed and impatient and like every negative human trait amplified into one gruesome epitome of everything wrong with humanity. And yet, Gil-galad held no grudge.

The only scar he kept from Nargothrond was the one on his arm.


	2. Fingon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gil-galad thinks about his earlier childhood. Fingon deals with the struggles that come with tolerating a baby.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> T/N: Bruinaeg essentially means 'tiny screaming annoyance that never shuts up and will cost me my life'

Fingon Nolofinwion was somewhat of a curiosity amongst the line of high kings. He had come after one of the longest reigns in the first age, only to be the shortest. He had none of the formality, and none of the maturity of his father, and yet still commanded more respect than any man could hope to earn in a lifetime. He was mischievous, and fun, and _interesting_. It was a tragedy that he could not be known as his son, but that would cast doubt on him, because every son has a mother. Or, at least, that’s how his advisors phrased it, before they inevitably told him that it would not do for a bastard child to hold the throne. And, by the way they looked at him, they clearly thought he was. Perhaps they were right—it wasn’t as if Fingon was around to ask.

No one seemed to doubt that they were related—he had once stood next to a portrait of the former high king and demanded that Elrond tell him if they shared a resemblance, and Elrond had joked that he had thought it was just another portrait of him. Then again, he had asked Elrond instead of Celebrimbor or Galadriel for a reason. Sure, he could stand in front of mirror for hours, counting up every single trait he shared in common—his dark hair, brown skin, blue eyes, the way he hands were built, and the way he smiled—but it wouldn’t mean anything; if he wanted to find signs he was related to _Thingol,_ he probably could.

Maybe he _should_ call for Celebrimbor. An honest opinion would be helpful, perhaps—but, of course, Celebrimbor would be busy with his work (and with that tricky guest of his, but thinking about Annatar tended to give Gil-Galad a headache, so he avoided it). Then Galadriel? But he hated to bother her when she had her own business to run.

At least there was no doubt that, biological or not, Fingon _was_ undeniably his father—enough so that Pengolodh had mistakenly penned it as such, and refused to change his account, even when Gil-Galad had advised him that officially he was Orodreth’s. The politics of fatherhood were too complex for him to risk an inconsistency, and yet he found that he didn’t really mind that particular one.

His memories of Fingon were his earliest and, with the corruption of hindsight, his most painful. He had lived in Hithlum from birth until he was fifteen, and all of his formative years had been spent at his side, sitting on his knee, or at his feet at the base of his throne, listening to him trying to rule as he played with his braids, or the tassels at the foot of his robes. He had a hazy memory of a discussion in which a rather exasperated Maedhros Feanorion offered to babysit him while Fingon was conducting his affairs, to which Fingon had responded that _“Everyone loves a baby, Russo; if anything it makes them_ more _likely to side with me.”_ The subject had not been brought up again, and Ereinion was only ever separated from his father once.

He stared at the page in front of him—while he’d been lost in thought, the ink at the tip of his quill had bled over into the line above.

Fingon had taught him to write, too. Or, rather, tried to teach him to write (Maedhros had been the one who succeeded). Being so small and so new to the realm of words on paper, he had found it difficult, and the ghost of Fingon’s hands guiding his across the page was a hard one to shake, especially in the darkness of a night clouded with memory. He sighed. He wasn’t going to be able to finish writing if he kept getting so lost in the past. Perhaps it really was too late for him to be working.

  
  
\---

  
  
At least he knew the baby’s lungs were healthy.   
  
Fingon told himself that over, and over as some sleep-deprived mantra that that was what was important. But surely no baby screamed like that? He looked over at his writing desk, feeling the sure pull of the idea of writing a letter to Maedhros— _another_ letter to Maedhros. Because the four he’d already sent that evening weren’t enough. Logically, he knew that none of them would arrive for days, and he wouldn’t get a reply back for some time after that, but logic didn’t really factor in to the chaos of trying to keep the infant from screaming himself to death.   
  
“Hey—hey, I know you’re sad, okay? I’m sad too. I know what it’s like to miss your mother,” he said, peering over into the makeshift cot he’d had created from an ornate fruit bowl and the softest cloak he had left over from the Helcaraxë. “We’ve just gotta rely on each, other, okay? Alright?”   
  
The baby was quiet for a moment, staring up at him with wide, blue eyes—the colour of the morning sky just before the sun rose. He remembered marvelling at the shade the first time he saw it, but whenever he’d tried to recreate in paint it to show Maedhros he’d fallen flat. The baby scrunched up his face, and Fingon sighed, bracing himself for the next, inevitable scream, when the door swung open, drawing both of their attention.   
  
“What’s the baby’s name?”   
  
Fingon breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of his father, dressed down and finally done with whatever kingly duties he had been attending to. “His mother called him _Gil-Galad_ .”   
  
Fingolfin eased himself down onto the floor next to him. “And what do you call him?”   
  
“I don’t know. He cries so much, maybe I’ll just call him _Bruinaeg_ ,” He groaned.   
  
“You wouldn’t be that cruel, son.” He caught a smile playing on his father’s lips and, if he wasn’t such a model heir, he would’ve stuck his tongue out at him for finding this situation funny. “Besides, he seems quiet now.”   
  
“Wait.” Said Fingon, giving the baby a hard stare. “You’ll learn.” 

They sat in silence for a minute, waiting, but the infant seemed to be fixated on his father, reaching out a tiny hand to grasp at his fingers. Fingon shook his head—this was _not_ happening. “Maybe _you_ should take him instead,” he sighed.

“I’ve no need for another heir,” Fingolfin gave him a wry smile, wrapping an arm around his shoulders, “I have you.”

Fingon leant into the hug—no matter how old he got (or how mature he convinced himself he was), he was still a child in his father’s arms. When they watched the ships burn, when they were crossing the ice, when they’d buried Argon, when he’d gotten back from Angband, covered in blood and dust and tears—he’d always been able to find some small comfort in his father’s arms. There was safety there. Or maybe his dad was just really good at giving hugs. One of the two.

Gil-Galad began to sniffle.

“Oh, Eru have mercy.” Fingon pulled himself free of the hug and reached down into the fruit-bowl, picking up the baby and holding him close against his chest. It hadn’t worked when he’d done it before, but he didn’t want to look incompetent in front of his father for not trying. “Hush, it’s ok; Finno’s got you.”

Fingolfin raised an eyebrow.

“I feel weird calling myself his dad.” He winced. “I’m too young.”

“You’re older than I was.”

“Then I’m too used to being a brother, or an uncle.”

His father shook his head, moving swiftly on. “You _did_ notify Maedhros—” They froze as the baby let out what was officially his first scream in the presence of the High King of the Noldor.

“Of course,” he said, carefully neglecting to mention the exact number of times he sent such a notification.

They paused again as Gil-Galad continued to cry.

“He’s got great lungs,” Fingon added, trying to keep a straight face.

“Indeed, he has.”

  
\---

 

Again he found himself wanting to send for Celebrimbor, Annatar be damned. He wasn’t sure why he’d been so cautious to interrupt their work in the first place—he didn’t exactly value those experiments they were always doing, and he had always much preferred Narvi being around anyway. Still, he found himself deciding against that particular endeavour, yet again afraid of the results that it make yield, but he still wanted to find some reason to get Celebrimbor away from the forges. No matter how many times Annatar ‘proved’ himself trustworthy, he couldn’t allow himself to let down his guard. Not when it came to one of his oldest friends.

He leant forwards against the cool stone of the balcony wall, looking out over the city as the sun rose above the horizon, making its way lazily through the summer sky. That early in the day the air was still cool, and the feel of the breeze against his skin was refreshing, rather than oppressive—he knew that it wouldn’t last. Best to make the most of it.

The summers in Lindon ranged from pleasantly warm to, at their height, scorching, and he had never gotten used to them—he used to joke that he was a cold-climate kind of person on account of being from Hithlum until he remembered that he wasn’t actually officially from there.

The most refreshing kinds of people to talk to were those who believed he _was_ Fingon’s bastard, and who blatantly didn’t care. It was perceived as somewhat of an ‘open secret’ among scholars and few of them cared to muse on any other possible theories: it was the simplest explanation so, naturally, it had to be true. The High King Fingon had, in a passion, conceived a son (possibly with a human woman, but that was hotly debated) and raised him best he could to make up for his scandalous creation. Gil-galad wasn’t sure if he liked that version of events, but it was the first he’d come into contact with—he’d overheard a maid gossiping about it with her friends during his first night in Círdan’s household. It had been the first time he’d any inkling that there might not be the utmost clarity surrounding his parentage.

He remembered demanding that Círdan tell him if he, too, believed that, and Círdan had asked him if it mattered. Gil-galad hadn’t been sure of the answer. He still wasn’t.

  
\---

 

The following days offered very little sleep, but did gift him two welcome riders entering Hithlum from Himring. The first being a messenger carrying a letter back from Maedhros that could, essentially, be simplified down into ‘ _very funny, Finno, but you’ll have to try harder to trick me’_ and the second being Maedhros himself, who greeted him with a grand speech that could be reduced to ‘ _oh, Eru, you’re serious_ ’. It was, Fingon ‘regretted’ to admit, rather entertaining. Or, at the very least, his lover’s expression was—the situation itself could be aptly summed up as ‘unideal’ and perhaps even ‘concerning’.

After eight days, it was pretty clear that there was something wrong with little _Bruinaeg_. More so as even Fingolfin appeared to warm up to the name with each passing day.

Fingon had led Russo straight to his chambers, kept pitch black in the hope that it would help little Gil (as he had taken to calling him in lieu of any real name) sleep. It had not helped him sleep.

Maedhros had at first been apprehensive at the idea that Fingon had somehow acquired a baby, but he hadn’t asked questions and had tolerated Gil’s tiny hands grabbing at his hair. He lifted him gently from the makeshift crib (and even managed to restrain himself to only _one_ comment at how inappropriate a place it was for a baby to sleep— _”A fruit bowl?”,_ to which Fingon had responded, _“Because he’s the apple of my eye.”_ Maedhros had just sighed). And he had managed to get him to stop crying for a full hour by finding distraction after distraction to keep him occupied; Maedhros was probably a thousand times better at handling babies than he was, but he managed to keep himself from asking if he would take him instead—possibly because the question he’d rather ask was if Russo could finally give up the ghost and hand Himring over to Maglor’s people so that he could come and live in Hithlum permanently. He bit that one back, too.

Maedhros was standing across from him, pacing in circles around the room, trying to soothe Gil into falling asleep, humming the same tunes he used to hum for Ambarussar when he had been stuck babysitting them. Back then neither of them had ever considered that their positions in the royal household were anything but for show—no one died in Aman. In Aman, everyone was safe. Still, they had joked that someday, if Finwë ever decided to abdicate, and if Fëanor pulled some stunt that would inevitably skip him from the succession, they would get married and co-rule, and everything would be great. In some twisted way, that pleasant daydream had almost become reality.

Fingon bit his lip. This was not how it was meant to be, and he was not the person he’d imagined that he would be.

Gil would be silent in Maedhros’ arms, content to simply be carried around and spoken to, which made sense: Maedhros had been old enough to get roped into child-rearing duties when his first brother was born, and then he’d dealt with five more after that (plus a couple of Fingon’s younger siblings once Fingolfin had realised how hopeless he was at the whole ‘being a responsible elder sibling’ thing). He wasn’t the kind of person who could soothe a child to sleep just like that; he was the kind of person who would lead the same child into doing stupid things, and who’d let them eat too many sweets because he remembered how much he had wanted to when he was young.

Maedhros lowered the now-sleeping child back into the fruit bowl and yawned. “He’s crying because he’s in pain, you know,” He said, easing himself into the seat next to Fingon’s.

“I guessed as much, but I don’t know what to do about it—I don’t know what to do about him, Russo. He’s so small and helpless and I’m a disaster: I can’t raise a child. It’s so hard.”

“Yeah, and I’m willing to bet the skin condition isn’t helping.” Maedhros cocked an eyebrow, with that insufferable little half-smile that said, _‘I am about to tell you something I could’ve told you hours ago, but waited for dramatic effect, and am also going to pretend that I thought you knew the whole time’_. Maedhros liked to pretend he wasn’t like the other Fëanorians. That is what he liked to pretend.

Fingon sighed, playing along, “skin condition?”

“Uncommon among our kind, but Caranthir had it, and Gil-galad clearly has it—I know it’s possible to make a salve to deal with it because I’ve seen humans doing it for their kids.”

Fingon wasn’t sure whether to punch him in the arm or kiss him. Instead, he settled for burying his forehead in Maedhros’ shoulder. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“Possibly because I thought you’d notice the fact that your baby has rashes covering his face. You and your father are both useless.”

“I know—I—” Fingon hesitated as he realised that he was crying. He covered his mouth—half in surprise, and half to muffle any sobs, but by the way Maedhros wrapped an arm around him, he was pretty sure he could tell.

“You don’t have to—”

“No, no, I said—I promised her that I—” he shook his head, remembering the look on her face—the way she had, bleeding, thrown herself at his feet, pleading with blue eyes wide open. He pulled himself away, petty thought interrupting his break-down. “Did you see his eyes?”

“His…eyes?”

“They’re the exact shade as before the sun first rose.”

Maedhros laughed. “Really?”

“Would I lie about that? And—” he noticed the way Maedhros’ eyes, too, shone powder-blue in the low light of the chamber (how had he never noticed that before?)— “I think I know what to call him.” He held his gaze, thinking back to afternoons spent in the warmth of the trees, laying about in open fields and talking about a future they never considered could be theirs. “Ereinion.”

He saw the change in Russo’s expression—the way the switch flipped from happiness to worry. “You—we can’t.”

And he was right, of course, but that had never stopped Fingon before.

  
\---

 

When had he first been hailed Ereinion? It was by Círdan’s people, crying the name over and over on the day of his coronation—cheering for the new king. He had never been quite sure who had started the chant, but he had his suspicions. However, before he was hailed Ereinion, he was called it in gentle voices in the privacy of rooms with closed doors. Fingon had called him by that name whenever he could. It was a close-kept secret—only for those select few who were truly in the know about the nature of his origin. Fingolfin, Lalwen, Maedhros, and, perhaps Orodreth (he had never been sure whether he knew or not: the man gave little away). Of course, all of those people were dead.

Now everyone called him by that name, regardless of what they believed was the truth about his parentage. It felt half like a relief, and half like the invasion of something private, that was only ever meant to be for him and his family.

“Ereinion?” Of course, he didn’t mind Elrond invading that space. Maybe it was because they _were_ almost family.

“Hm?”

“You have a letter—this little kid came up and handed it to me; said you’d know who it was from.”

Gil-galad smiled as Elrond shot him a quizzical look. “Let’s see what she came up with.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment if you enjoyed, and ten points to anyone who can guess which theory the next chapter is about!


	3. Círdan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Upon reading up on one of the more scandalous theories about his paternity, Gil-galad is prompted to do some digging, returning to one possible location of his roots in search of the answers that he feels he has a right to know. Círdan reflects on what it was like assisting Gil-galad through his adolescence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally delivering unto you a new chapter of this baby!! I left Círdan and Lalwen's relationship fairly ambiguous on purpose, so you can decide whether they're genuinely lovers or just really good friends for yourself!
> 
> Shout out to laerfileg and HerAwesomeShinyness for being the best betas a gal could ask for!

_ He was the product of an illicit affair—a forbidden romance between two leaders of their people, a child born of love and despite all of the risk, sent away for his own safety, and raised by his mother’s kin. _

_ They’d fallen for each other when they met at the Mereth Aderthad, or was it even before then? Either way, they had met, and their connection had been instant. Some joked that it was pure, raw physical attraction—those were usually humans. It was more likely the spark of two like-minds meeting and falling into step with each other. _

_ At first, they repressed their connection, keeping quiet and saying nothing, but as time drew on in its slow march, they found themselves inevitably drawn together. And then they found themselves falling in love in such a way that may only happen once and never again—in such a way that it burns through all semblance of resolve and poisons the very root of feeling: the heart. He was the product of such a love. Born with the distinct understanding that his real lineage could never be known—not even to him. _

Well, that was the gist of it. Of course, she meant Lalwen and Círdan—which was reasonable: he couldn't think of any way he could actually dispute that theory. He looked Finwëan—there was no denying that—so why not move the generation he had been born in up a little? He’d seen portraits of Lalwen, too (albeit fewer than her more notorious relatives), and if he looked like Fingon, he looked like her.

She had been tall and beautiful, with long, graceful limbs and elegant hands that could throw a mean punch. The first time he saw her he wasn’t sure how he managed to look away; she was something else, from somewhere else. It was the first time he truly understood the difference between the Moriquendi and the Calaquendi. It wasn’t that he hadn’t noticed it before but seeing her standing next to Círdan was like seeing a diamond next to a white rose. Epitomes of their people; both beautiful, yet so very, very different. She smiled kindly, and offered him her hand, bidding that he follow her so that she could show him to his room. All he'd been able to do was nod.

It never occurred to him to ask why they had a room ready for him.

In hindsight, he probably should’ve asked—he doubted that they would’ve kept that a secret from him and, if they did, then he’d have his answer, in a way.

Elrond snorted: he showed some level of disdain for that particular theory (Gil-galad was fairly sure that that was because he preferred certain  _ other  _ ones that had them more clearly related—he didn’t mind: he saw him as a little brother either way).

He raised his eyebrows.

“It’s just so…” Elrond leant back against the wall, waving his hand around— “cliché! It’s so cliché; nothing in real life is that cliché.”

“Nothing in real life is that cliché? Who am I talking to right now?”

Elrond sighed, which, undeniably, meant that Gil had won. He smiled.

“Want to get to business?”

“Actually, that was why I was on my way here—”

“I thought you just enjoyed my company.”

“You  _ wish _ , old man—I believe I found a good place to set up shop if you’d be willing to help…”

“What’s wrong with here?”

“Nothing! I just think it would be a good idea to have a back-up, and I think you know that, too.”

And Elrond was right, of course: the number of times he’d had to flee his home for somewhere else were beyond the point of counting. He turned back to look over the city; he could see the havens from the balcony if he squinted. Maybe he should ask. Just to see. Círdan had always been fond of him. 

 

\---

 

“Lalwen?”

“Yes, dear?”

“Can I speak to you for a moment?” Círdan looked over at the table, where the boy was distracted by a servant. “ _ Alone.” _

Lalwen grinned, as she was often wont to do in such scenarios. They excused themselves from the dining table and shuffled off into a side-room—it must’ve been an old pantry, but he’d been there so long that he’d forgotten all of the layout changes that had occurred in his home. After a certain point, keeping track began to seem pointless.

Lalwen had to duck slightly to get through the doorway (she often teased that his people were far too short to be  _ real  _ elves, but he thought she was just annoyed that she hit her head on one of the doors when she first arrived—her kind really weren’t used to things not being designed for them). She closed the door behind her, letting it swing into place with a dull thud and then sliding the blot across. All of the doors had locks, it was basic safety at that point, and Gil-galad’s case proved it: having things all open plan was just an invitation for attack, and left you no time to escape through a window (never mind that Nargothrond was mostly underground).

“What is it?”

“Who is he?”

“My nephew’s son, didn’t you hear him?”

Círdan shook his head, but she was unreadable. “And you’ve been expecting him?”

She laughed —a sound like the clinking of heavy jewelry—and nodded, “ever since I had word of his birth; there was always the possibility that he would come here for safety.”

“For safety.”

Her eyes drifted away from him, across to the window, and he followed her gaze; she was looking out over the harbour again. Every once in a while, she would, and her eyes would mist over. He didn’t say anything, just watched the stars reflect on the water.

There were some nights when she would leave the bounds of the city and walk as far as she could along the shore, watching the waves, waiting for something. A signal, perhaps. Some sign that someone on the other side was looking out for her, was calling her home again. But their kind couldn’t afford to cultivate homesickness; too many of their places had been torn down and left to ruin —they had no home, and they could not rely on the favour of a family left long behind over a glimmering sea.

“There’s something you aren’t telling me.”

She sighed. “You’re right, but some secrets just will not do to be told.”

He thought back to her long visits to Hithlum, travelling so often between the various colonies of her far-spread relatives that she barely spent any time in the city she called home at all. The number of things that could happen over the course of year-long stretches like that were beyond the point of counting, but he would not ask. He had once heard a traveller from Himring tell him ‘ _ There is no use negotiating with a Fëanorian whose mind is set,’  _ but Círdan would argue that advice could be applied to anyone of Finwëan descent. 

“My brother is dead,” she said, at last, “as are the vast majority of my nephews and nieces. This boy, whoever he may be, is the only real family I have left to keep close, so keep him close I will.” The resignation and the determination in her voice wove their dance together; for all the sadness and the pain, she still clung onto the hope of a better future. Perhaps he did, too. After all, what other choice did they have? 

 

\---

  
At the height of the summer, Gil-galad left and spent a week in the havens, dressed in peasants clothes and sitting at the end of the docks, letting the water lap at his toes. 

If he were to sail west, would he find a home? Surely he'd find people he knew and who no doubt cared about him, and he'd probably, by pure chance, find someone at least  _ distantly  _ related to him, but would he belong? Could he ever belong anywhere? He knew that Elrond was plagued by the same questions; his birthplace was long lost, and the matter of his family, while transparent, was far from simple. 

No, leaving was not an option, and they both knew that, while the other stayed, so would they. They had for themselves an eternal stalemate.

Círdan sat next to him. 

“What's on your mind, son?”

“Good question.” He internally noted the particular term of endearment. “Do you know who I am?”

He shook his head. “Lalwen did.” 

“But she disappeared centuries ago, so I can't ask  her _.” _

“I suppose you can't.” 

“Is there anyone I  _ can  _ ask?”

“Is it that important that you know? You know who you really are, beneath everything else. The best you can do is what you believe in, and your family don't have to influence that in any way, if you don't want them to.” He squeezed his shoulder.

“ _ Who do I ask _ , gramps?” 

Círdan laughed. “It was worth a try. You know who.” 

“I'll never find him.” 

“Maybe not, but I’m still not entirely convinced that you want to.”

Gil-galad furrowed his brow. He couldn’t shake the feeling that Círdan didn’t really understand why his parentage was such an issue —it wasn’t some desperate desire to ‘know who he really was’ or to find out where he fit into the universe—not when he gave it any degree of thought—it was the desire to know if he was allowed to be comfortable with where he was and with the feelings he harboured. 

It was a desire to know that it was okay to care for the ones who raised him, rather than the ones who created him. 

 

\---

 

The first summer was long and hot and the boy wasn’t any help lying about in his room or the library, flipping through old records and scouring the archives for something—anything—that might offer some entertainment. He was frustrated living stagnant like that,  Círdan could tell, but there was very little to be done about it. Perhaps boredom was the price that had to be paid for safety.

But, and he thought this while watching the adolescent add another line to the drawing he was doing of the wood-grain in the window frame, this was beginning to get depressing to watch. 

Gil-galad seemed to think himself useless. He was a writer and a soldier in a community of oral poetry and peace, as far as Círdan understood his plight. At first the solution had been simple; ask Lalwen to spar with him. The downside to this, of course, was that Lalwen, despite having no family left to visit, still had her heart set on the road. 

It was during one of those weeks-long stretches when he decided that enough was enough and something really ought to be done. 

“Gil-galad?”

The boy peered up at him from where he was slouched over a diagram of cart wheels. 

“You’re wasting away in here; how about I teach you to sail.”

He’d made the offer before, back when he’d first arrived, and he’d been refused point-blank, but this time the teenager just looked at him. He dared not say anything more, lest he disturb the internal debate. The kid sighed. “Alright then.”

He wasn’t exactly a natural, and the terminology definitely went straight over his head, but he managed not to capsize the boat on his first try, so Círdan decided to call it a success. The second attempt  _ did  _ result in the both of them getting dunked head first into the water, but, considering the oppressive heat of the day, he decided that that was also a success. 

And, to his own credit, Gil-galad was laughing as he pulled himself out. 

“Round three?” He asked, watching him wring out his tunic.

“If I have to set foot on a boat again in my life I will lay down and take the call.”

Círdan chuckled. “That’s how you know you’re warming up to it.”

“If you say so.”

“Look, son —” he clapped him on the shoulder. Gil-galad jumped. “You’re doing great.”

He smiled. “I don’t know about that.”

“No. No one is an expert on their first try, and you’re not cooped up indoors, so you’re doing amazing.”

“You have seaweed in your hair.”

“That's part of the fun.” 

Gil-galad laughed. “Fine. I'm gonna do this until I get it right.”

“That's the spirit!” It also struck him as characteristically  _ Noldor  _ of the kid, or—no, it sounded very much like the way Lalwen often described her older brother; it sounded  _ Fëanorian.  _ He didn’t want to think too hard about what that might mean. 

 

\---

 

When he returned to Lindon, he came not refreshed, but determined. There was an answer out there for him to discover, and discover it he would. 

It wasn’t as if he hadn’t scoured the records room before, but he’d been young and impulsive and looking only for what pleased him and what supported the image he was supposed to be presenting to the world. This time, he would follow every lead to its end, and he would balance every story with each other, comparing and contrasting until he uncovered some taste of the truth. 

Besides, searching for Maglor would be like trying to shoot down the sun. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully the gap until the next update won't be as long this time, since I've decided to make writing this a priority! As always, please leave a comment if you enjoyed the chapter (so I can get a feel for how I'm doing) and feel free to make your guesses as to who's gonna be put under investigation next!! (If I'm introduced to a new theory that I really like I might just have to add another chapter into the plan)


	4. Finrod

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scouring the records room for information, Gil-galad finds himself drawn into the life and concerns of Finrod, King of Nargothrond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So like I know that all elves are bisexual n all that but Finrod is ESPECIALLY bisexual. On the other hand, if you squint really hard consider that fact that he manages to develop close familial bonds with everyone he meets, you could say he and Beor were just really close friends.

It had long been night when he came across the letter, starting at the bottom of a chest of the things. Very few of King Finrod’s belongings had survived the fall of Nargothrond, but the correspondences that he had sent out to others remained, even if their replies were long-gone. It was old, nearly crumbling in his hands, but about as well-preserved as could be. Even if it wasn’t useful information, he decided that it would be good to copy it out for posterity anyway, but the contents—the contents gave him pause.

  
_Faithful Vassal,_

  
It had begun.

  
_I write to you with concerns over our alliance._

  
The position appeared political, which he had expected, though it was a wonder that a letter from so long ago had survived.

  
_While I understand entirely that there is little that can be done about the threat, there is always the promise of safety should you choose to come and dwell within my domain. I anticipate that you’re opposed to this, and I would be, too—abandoning my people wouldn’t sit well with me either—however, this is a matter of security, not to mention that your input is essential to my governance._ _  
_ _Hence, I implore you to reconsider your position, humbly reminding you that Baran is perfectly capable of handling things by himself and that it would really do wonders in impressing that girl that he’s sweet on for him to hold such a position. This reminds me, I neglected to mention that last time we spoke; please do not give any indication that you are aware, he flusters easily._

  
That made him stop. He reread the line, but it said exactly what he’d thought, and the tone read exactly the same in his head. The romantic longings of a chieftain’s son seemed like such petty troubles for a king to concern himself with—no (he probably would do the same given the chance)—they seemed like the kind of thing that would pass a king, in all his busyness, by. This was too familial. Finrod must’ve been closer to the family than he thought.

  
_Although, I might add, if you get the chance, tell him to grow out his beard—she seems to find that attractive, as do many mortal women, it appears. And perhaps myself, I am as yet undecided._  
           _I also recommend that he invest time in teaching himself an artistic skill—perhaps painting or flower arranging—gardening? Sensitivity is not something to be laughed at, nor is willingness to create—to bring forth into the world. And it doesn’t hurt to adorn oneself, either with fashioned jewellery or flowers and berries. The visual interest such accessories generate naturally draws the eye, thus she may finally ‘notice him,’ as he so hopes._

Finrod continued to advise for another three paragraphs, which he skimmed, before something caught his attention.

  
_With any hope, he will find happiness with more conventional ways than us._

  
Gil-galad sat back. He didn’t want to jump to conclusions, it was unwise to jump to conclusions, he was _not_ going to jump to conclusions. “They were _lovers_ ,” he breathed. He turned back to the letter.

  
_I have arranged to travel to meet you in a month’s time, at which point we will be able to discuss these matters further. I hope the younger ones have not missed me too dearly; it pains me to be away so long as it is._  
_Yours eternally,_ _  
_ _Nóm_

 

\---

  
“Fin—”

  
“I asked you to leave me in peace, brother.” Finrod opened his eyes from where he lay hunched over several sheets of parchment.

  
Aegnor hovered in the doorway, bringing light into the darkened record-room with the flicker of a candle. It illuminated his face in such away that he looked like something out of a bedtime story; the kind about uncanny monsters that would eat you if you didn’t wash for more than two weeks. “We haven’t seen you in a while. People are worried.”

  
He sighed, sitting up in his chair and stretching out. “I told you—” he yawned— “I’m updating the records.”

  
Aegnor stepped into the room, closing the door behind him, so soft that it might’ve been made of glass. “There are others who could do that for you.”

  
“They’d get the details wrong.”

  
“How much detail do they need?”

  
“As much as possible—they’re my _kids_ , you monster.” It felt good to say it out loud. Aegnor made a face, but he evidently chose not to comment, which was nice; Finrod didn’t feel like fighting with his brother. He didn’t feel like much of anything—not since—not since then.

  
Aegnor drew up a chair and sat down next to him at the desk. He rested a hand on his shoulder in the same, tentative way that their mother always did when she was about to teach them a difficult life lesson. Instead, Aegnor used the moment to say, “you’re the stupidest person I know.”

  
Under normal circumstances, he might’ve cheerily agreed, or punched his younger brother in the shoulder—instead, he bowed his head and began to cry. It wasn’t the first time, either. He looked with regret through the filter of his tears at the stack of discarded papers already ruined because he couldn’t bear to fill out the digits of that second date. He let out a sharp breath. “It just hurts so much, you know?”

  
Aegnor shook his head. Of course, he didn’t. He couldn’t. “You really loved them, didn’t you?”

  
“ _Love_ ,” he said, “please—no past tense.”

  
“Why? Why put yourself through this?” Aegnor gently took the quill from his hand, and shifted the sheet of parchment away from him, skimming over its contents.

  
Finrod shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  
“I would never—I could never bear it.” He uncorked another pot of ink and dipped the quill into it.

  
“Then I pray you won’t have to.”

  
The scratching of writing drew his eyes to where Aegnor had neatly penned in the date where it had been missing. He watched as his younger brother filled out all of the details he had been too distressed to put in himself, marking everything off with as much care as could be afforded to such tasks. He paused, nib hovering over the final two entries. He caught Finrod’s eyes. Finrod shook his head. Not them—not yet.

  
Eventually, but not yet.

  
“I’ll have to make a trip,” he said, “I shouldn’t be gone long. I’m leaving Angrod in charge while I’m away.” He stood, folding the records away and laying them in their proper place in the cubbies.

  
Aegnor frowned. “Let me come with you.” Finrod stared at him. “You shouldn’t have to go alone.”

  
“I have an en—”

  
“Emotionally alone.”

 

Finrod took a deep breath, his brother was far from the most eloquent of their people, that was certain, but the gesture was sweet, even if he suspected it was because Aegnor didn’t trust him to remember himself. “Alright then, but if you fall for any of them I will both kill you and laugh at you.”

  
“I wouldn’t worry about that,” Aegnor scoffed.

  
“Perhaps you should.”

  
\---

  
Finrod had been a prolific letter-writer, Gil-galad found, sifting through several boxes. He supposed it must’ve been necessity—Nargothrond was a hidden city, and it was safer to communicate via trusted messengers and letters than by inviting potential allies (and enemies) over for tea. Most were boring—there were several addressed to his father—to Fingon which consisted mostly of complaining about Turgon and his apparent inability to stay in contact with his family. There were a few other letters sent to Bëor that he could understand, but none like the one that he had initially found.

  
He began to wonder if he had thought correctly.

  
He pored over one addressed to his younger sister, Galadriel, which, according to the note tacked onto it in Elrond’s handwriting, had for some reason been in Maglor’s possession before he vanished.

  
It was easy to see why he’d kept it; the letter was a detailed gushing on human musical practices and their use of sound in ritual. He wondered why the letter had not been addressed to Maglor in the first place.

  
He managed to build up a picture of Finrod. A good ruler, friendly, beloved by his people and adoring of all he met. He was the kind of person who loved so ferociously, so brightly, and so freely that others couldn’t help but love him back. He smiled as he read through his letters, the affection with which he spoke about his siblings and the younger humans in his court, and the respect which he held for their culture and language—the downside, of course, being that he often chose to write in Taliska, too.

 

Finrod had revered their world as he had revered them, it seemed. And he cared for them deeply.

  
\---

  
He wasn’t sure that what he was doing was a good idea.

  
“Orodreth is in charge,” Finrod stared down the two Fëanorians. Celegorm didn’t meet his gaze—his attentions were turned elsewhere, as usual, thinking of other things. Finrod often wondered what it was like to exist within the mind of a Fëanorion—to be wired in the way that they all were, with impulses and ideas like constant static shocks. Curufin did, though, with a steely judgement that made his skin crawl.

  
“Orodreth?” He cocked an eyebrow.

  
“Yes, and you will respect him.”

  
“Sure.”

  
Finrod decided to ignore the disdain. He tried not to blame them—they hadn’t always been like that—but the oath seemed to eat away at the insides of their minds, or, at the very least, embitter them.

  
Uneasy, he slipped his travelling cloak over his shoulders. Beren was waiting.

  
He had a weakness, he knew—at some point before Andreth he had believed it to be a sickness—a physical ailment. Perhaps something of his more unhinged cousins had rubbed off on him. Why else would he be so drawn to those which had no power to stay? And drawn, he was. Again.

  
Beren bore only a passing resemblance to the man he had befriended so many years ago, but he had felt his heart latch onto him, wanting to smother him, to protect him as a parent should a child. Beren had seemed so lost and so desperate and so in love; he really, really didn’t want to fail Lúthien. He recognised that emotion.

  
_“I need to do this for her,”_ he had said, with a look in his eyes that blew out all possibility out of argument. _“Please help me. I don’t want to die.”_

  
Finrod had winced. He had been with mortals at their deathbed before—a young woman having her first child, realising that she wasn’t going to make it through the night, in frantic tears because she didn’t want to die—didn’t want to leave her daughter alone. Finrod had sung her and the baby to sleep.

  
Maybe he couldn’t keep Beren alive, but, if he came with him, he could offer him some comfort as he died, and he had come to learn that that was usually enough. And what if _he_ died? Perhaps, he hoped, he had spent so long around humans that part of him had become one. Perhaps, if he begged hard enough, he could join them—see them again. Perhaps. But he had been doomed long, long ago, and Mandos found it hard to forgive.

  
“What if you die?” Celegorm asked, turning his attention on him. Occasionally, Finrod would become paranoid that he could read minds.  

  
“Then Orodreth will be king, and you will continue to respect him.”

  
Celegorm shrugged.

 

He left them to enact whatever mischief they would; he had already warned his nephew that they might cause trouble. Still, as much as he appreciated Orodreth, he found himself wishing he had a son of his own to leave in charge—he couldn’t help but feel as if they’d have more authority. Perhaps he should’ve taken a leaf out of Fingon’s book and acquired a child under foggy circumstances. Still, he felt as if this was the way things had to be.

  
Maybe it was time Nargothrond had a new ruler. Maybe he had grown too soft for its heavy stone walls. Maybe he had suffered this place long enough.

  
\---

  
The final two letters in the box were hard to read. They were the last of the paper-trail that Finrod’s life had left across the years.

  
One was a letter to Galadriel, informing her of her brother’s passing, and the other was the one that had prompted him to investigate Finrod in the first place. It was torn and singed, never sent, somehow salvaged from the wreckage of Nargothrond by Eru-knew-who.

  
           _Fingon,_ _  
_ _I come to –r you with an urgent r– Please – that my –d son is protected –_

  
The rest of the letter had been torn away. It made sense, those who had seen it said, that he was referencing the young Gil-galad. Perhaps he had had a mortal lover, and a half-elven son whom he had entrusted to his cousin to watch over while he followed his quest. Perhaps.

  
But Gil-galad measured the length of the missing word against Finrod’s other letters and the way that he spoke about mortals, and he didn’t think that he was the one that it was referring to.

  
A drop of water hit the corner of the page. He realised that he was crying. He had never met Finrod, but he felt as if he knew him somehow, and now he mourned him, and lamented the pain that he had coloured his life with.

  
He laid the fragment back into its place atop the pile and took a deep breath as he closed the lid. His eyes drifted towards the box next to it, a polished chestnut with a latch of gold, padlocked tight. Identical to the rest, save for that lock and the initials inscribed on its front. There was a letter in there that he knew well—well enough that he could recite it in his sleep—and it called to him.

  
He lifted the box from its place; some nights were meant for mourning, and who was he to deny grief?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for reading!! Next chapter is probably going to be pretty long because I'm covering a dynamic that I really, really want to get right.


	5. Maedhros

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gil-galad rereads his last two pieces of correspondence with the famed kinslayer. Maedhros considers the difficult position that Fingon's ward puts them in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's not strictly canon but Shine wrote a lovely line about Maedhros seeing a baby and losing all common sense in her most recent fic and anyway that's exactly what happened here since I immediately accepted that as canon. 
> 
> Also: here's Shine's fic. Go read it (also whenever i try to add the link properly it deletes itself because im gay and dont know how to code so here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18158552)
> 
> You also may note that there is an inconsistency with something Gil says in an earlier chapter about his upbringing. This is because it's been months since I wrote that and, in my defence, I forgot. Also, if you squint 'he was always at his side until he wasn't' can mean 'he was always at his side until Fingolfin died and then, despite his best efforts, Fingon was way too busy to always be looking after him.' Point is, if I was an actual author, I'd go back and make changes, but I'm not (yet) and this is a fun hobby so I kindly request that you let me live.

_To Prince Ereinion Fingonion from Lord Maedhros_ _Fëanorion: I love you. I'm sorry._

He reran the first line in his head as he set the box down on the windowsill of his bedroom. The golden key clicked smoothly in the lock--it had been well maintained. The hinges had been oiled; they opened without a creak.

And the letter.

The letter sat on the top, water-damaged and crumbled and torn in so many places, stitched carefully back together. Perhaps he could've simply asked someone to copy it out again, but it was too private, and he had so little left of Maedhros as it was that losing the letter--that small trace of his handwriting--was just too much. The thing about the Fëanorians was that when they were gone, they were really gone. It had been a while before he'd acquainted himself with the exact details of their oath, but it made it clear that for them, there was no coming back. 

He unfolded it and began to read.

 _To Prince Ereinion Fingonion from Lord Maedhros_ _Fëanorion: I love you. I'm sorry._

_There is no justice in this world. This is a fact that I am reminded of every single day of my life; looking in the mirror, feeling the distance between me and your father, and the distance between me and you. This fact is scary and it hurts as soon as you realise it, but there are other things that you need to remember when the enormity of this injustice falls heavily upon you._

_I grew up surrounded by divinity; you never met the Valar, but they were eternal and magnificent and they were present. Manwë had wings that spanned for what seemed like miles when he spread them, Varda's eyes were supernovas and black holes that shone with deep dark, Aulë's skin burned with magma and flame, a cloak of light and soot fanning out behind him. Every single day was a day of light and wonder and hope but, Ereinion, when I needed justice the most, they couldn't deal it. The person who pursued it in their place was my father._

_My father was the only person that I could truly rely on, save for yours, perhaps. At the time, it made sense to follow him on his own doomed quest for justice, to see the world beyond the mountains and to find some kind of fresh start over the sea. I didn't know that it would be like this. Of course, as you well know by now, my father also proved to be ineffective at making things right--in fact, one might argue that he did just make everything so, so much worse. I'd be inclined to agree, but he taught me something important: we make our own justice in this world. I wanted to make justice._

He paused, tracing his forefinger over the faded ink at the bottom of the page. He'd forgotten--no--how could he kid himself? He knew exactly how the letter began; bleak and hopeless, every word a reminder of the pain that they had just suffered without ever needing to say anything. But dancing around difficult topics wasn't Maedhros' style.

_You lost your father, and I'm sorry._

 

\---

 

He was trying to write. _Trying._ Fingon had decided to make it as difficult for him as possible, pacing around the room and ranting about whoever had most recently slighted him and how he really ought to have them executed, or exiled, or something. He didn't know. He wasn't used to being king. And _hey, Russo, are you even listening to me?_

Oh, right, he said that.

“Mhm.” He stared down at the page, and desperately tried to recall the first half of the sentence that he had just penned.

Fingon sighed, then was suspiciously silent. He froze as he deposited little two-year-old Ereinion into his lap. The child wrapped his tiny fingers around the end of Maedhros' quill and tugged, spattering ink across the page. Maedhros shot the new High King a look.

“I can't figure out what he wants.” Fingon shrugged. 

Quill wrapped tight in his little fist, Ereinion buried his head in Maedhros’ chest--a gesture which set off some primal paternal ache that was imbued in his very being, which was something Maglor might say if he wasn’t so busy doing whatever the hell he did out up north with only his soldiers to bear witness. Probably writing ballads. It was what he was usually doing. Words can be interesting even if the people that string them together are not. It occurred to him that it had been months since he'd seen his brother in person. He should probably fix that. 

“He’s tired,” he said, lifting him up as he tried to prize the quill from his hand. It wouldn’t budge. “How long has it been--”

“Couple of hours, maybe.”

“You need to keep better track of your ward, Finno.”

He scowled. “I’d love to, but it turns out that you have to do a lot of admin when you’re King.” 

The words hung heavy in the air. He was right, he was busy, especially with having to handle all of Fingolfin’s half-finished business. Maedhros wasn’t sure what would be scarier; if the battle had been completely spontaneous, or if it had been years in the making. Neither of them had been entirely sure how exactly to react to the former High King's death.

“Sorry,” he said.

Fingon shook his head. “No mind.”

The silence shifted into something a little more comfortable as they laid Ereinion down in his crib, and left him to sleep. Maedhros closed the door as softly as he could.

“When are you going back?”

“Hm?”

“To Himring.” Fingon folded his arms and leant back against the wall, a picture of false calm.

He considered the question; he hadn’t been thinking about when he would need to return. Usually, his men were sensible enough to take care of themselves while he was away and, besides, his commanding officers were trustworthy enough to be left in charge a little longer. Still, it was an inevitable fact that he would have to go back there at some point, likely within the next year, lest rumour take foot.

“I haven’t made any plans,” he said.

“Is there any chance you could, say, hand over command to Maglor and just stay here?”

He raised his eyebrows.

“See, here’s the thing; it was fine while dad was still around; I could handle things, he could handle things--if Ereinion was acting up I could ask him for help but--see-he’s--sorry--” He choked. 

“ _Finno_ \--”

“He’s gone now,” he forced out the words, “and I don’t know anything about governing or parenting, but I’m expected to do both and, you know, it’s nice having someone around to ask.”

“After his next birthday, then,” Maedhros said, “and only for a month or so, just to see how things go. And also to get all your more ‘sensible’ advisors off of my back about the whole ‘bad influence’ thing.”

Fingon made a face. “They say that to you? To be fair, they didn’t know us when we were kids, otherwise, they’d understand it’s _me_ who’s bad _._ ”

Maedhros cupped his jaw. “You were the _worst_ influence.”

“I love you--also, I got a letter from my brother and I cannot understand a word of what he’s saying for how loftily he speaks, care to interpret?” Fingon smiled. He'd missed that look of mischief, even if it tended to signal some great inconvenience for him.

“You’re using me!”

“It’s what you deserve for being an awful kinslayer, obviously,” he said, turning to walk away down the hall.

“We’re really glossing over the fact you fought that same battle by my side?” Maedhros smiled.

“We absolutely are. Now, come, loyal vassal, your assistance is required.”

 

\---

 

_I wasn’t always on board with taking you in; it felt like too much, too soon, but I can safely say that I have loved you as a son despite all of my misgivings. You represent the future; a world in which no one has to search for justice in the wrong places anymore. But you’re also you, and I don’t want you to ever forget that._

_All I do in the name of peace, I do for you, because you deserve to not have to be fighting the same battles as I am._

_There is no worse feeling than knowing that, despite giving something your absolute everything, it has failed, and I know that feeling well; not only because of this battle, but because of its wider implications. I wanted to give you a better world, and I have failed. For that, I am eternally remorseful. It is the best any person can hope to leave the world behind better than we received it, and I could not do even that._

_Your father wished he could’ve spent more time with you. I know it upset both of you that he was so busy, particularly in the years leading up to the battle, so please don’t feel as if he begrudged you that time out of malice, or even on purpose. He loved you so much--still does--I’m sure he’s watching over you in every way that you can and making sure that you’re safe._

_Mysticism aside, I hear that Mandos has tapestries, so I mean this quite literally. Knowing him, he’d fight his way out if you were in danger._

_When you were little, just after he became King, I used to watch you; my duties, while still pressing, were undeniably less important and could easily, if he so desired, be overruled by the orders of the King. Those weren’t his orders--I insisted until he wouldn’t let me--but the point is that it wasn’t a burden to be relegated to the role of royal babysitter. I have six younger brothers, I might as well list ‘professional prince-minder’ along with the rest of my titles (now significantly fewer than before, I suppose.)_

A smile tugged at the corner of Gil-galad’s lips as he read; Maedhros had always been like that, as far as he could tell. Serious until, just like that, he wasn’t. Elrond had said something about ‘unhealthy coping mechanisms’ when he brought it up.

_It worked out fine for a few weeks, but you were restless and, as soon as you could walk, you became a problem. While I can usually get by with my handicap, wrangling small children is one of the few things that I still find difficult and, due to the nature of all of my brothers being busy with other things (that, and living on a military base), it wasn’t as if I was getting much practice. So Fingon suggested that you simply sit in on his meetings, and that if you got fussy, I could whisk you away somewhere quieter and kinder. He thought it would be a good idea. I thought that it would give you a bad case of bureaucracy. I suppose time will tell._

_The point I’m getting at is that Fingon, your father, perhaps the person in the world who most hated political life, forced himself to sit through day-long meetings and deal with any number of insignificant issues just to be a good example for you, so that your life could be easier in the long run._

He flipped the page over, then closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He knew what came next in this story.

_Fatherhood changes you in a way that nothing else can. Everything is different because someone relies on you to be as good as you possibly can. You make decisions that you’re afraid to. You still make mistakes._

 

\---

 

They had gotten into a dangerous habit of climbing up to the roof and watching the movements of the court from high above, leaving Ereinion to play in the courtyard under the watchful eye of several of the palace staff. Maedhros didn’t like to leave him like that, but he also didn’t like to talk business with Fingon in full view of their son; it seemed inappropriate, ruinous. Fingon had taken off the crown, and was picking at one of the jewels inlaid in the front--he didn’t like them; he was planning on getting it modified as soon as he had the time or courage to ask someone. It had been ten years since he mentioned that to Maedhros.

“Spring,” Maedhros said.

“No.”

He braced himself. “Why not?”

“We won’t have all our weapons triple-checked by then, plus I think there’s still a chance that we can sway Orodreth, given time,” he leant against the wall, eyes following Ereinion as he ran around the fountain below.

“The first day of summer,” he suggested.

“And we still need to find somewhere to send him,” Fingon murmured, half to himself.

“Midsummer, then, and if you’re so sure Orodreth will come around, Nargothrond is safe.” He laid his hand on Fingon’s shoulder. He reached up and squeezed it.

“You know, we could probably just send him. It’ll be easier to apologise afterwards than to ask in advance.”

A silent _if we survive,_ sat between them.

At the time, it had seemed like a good idea to attack; to finally take revenge for all of the pain that Morgoth and his minions had caused them, but that was back when the battle was a distant future that they didn’t actually have to face up to. Their allies were waiting for them to make a decision, and it was getting late.

“Midsummer,” Fingon said, straightening up.

“Midsummer?” Maedhros clarified, taken aback. Somehow he had still been expecting Fingon to postpone and postpone as much as he could. Maybe he wanted him to.

Fingon nodded. “Better sooner than later, while everyone still has morale.”

Neither of them were looking at each other anymore.

“He’s still so young...that’s better, right? That way he’ll be free of this sooner.”

“Hypothetically.” Maedhros frowned. Neither of them particularly liked the idea of potentially orphaning their son, but the idea of raising him in a dangerous world, not even having tried to improve it, was worse. And they knew that they _could_ try. It had been done. It had been done by a demigod and a series of lucky coincidences, but it had been done.

“Our lives are a series of impossible choices.” Fingon bit his lip.

“Careful, you’re starting to sound like Maglor.”

He elbowed him. Softly. “Don’t be rude; I could have you exiled.”

“You’d undermine this whole alliance just for a petty jab?”

“Petty? That insult was _grave_ , my love.” He wrapped an arm around Maedhros’ waist and pulled him closer. Maedhros tried to ignore the maid attempting desperately to avoid staring at them. “Promise not to die, will you? I need you.”

His chest tightened. “I promise. At least not before you.”

“He needs you, too.”

He stayed silent.

“Russo, please--”

“I promise--I swear.”

Fingon relaxed. “Thank you.” Maedhros enjoyed the quiet. He enjoyed the closeness, the feeling of Fingon’s touch; the fact that he could close his eyes and pretend that they lived a simpler life, where it was just the three of them and they didn’t have to worry about oaths or battles or which distant relative had the safest and most accessible stronghold to send a child to. “If I die--”

“ _Finno--”_

“If I die, I want you just--just to make sure that he’s safe, okay? And that he knows that I loved--love him.”

“You won’t die, though,” Maedhros said--close enough to a plea, “because I need you, too _._ ”

Before Fingon could answer, Ereinion called out to them, smiling, and, just like that, Fingon put back on his normal grin. They spoke no more about it.

 

\---

 

_To go to war--to put ourselves at risk like that; it was a mistake. A mistake with noble intentions, but a mistake nonetheless, and I’m sorry._

_Before he died, your father made me promise to keep you safe. Ereinion, I want to honour that promise for as long as I live, but at the moment, keeping you safe means leaving you in Nargothrond, away from all of this chaos and danger. Though I desperately want to run to you and wrap you up in my arms and shield you from the world, that is not what’s best for you right now. When it’s safe, I’ll come and get you, I swear to Nienna, may She bring you comfort._

He turned the page over again. The letter was over, but he always longed for more. Every time he read through it again, he was eighteen and curled up in his room in the candle-light, tears damp on his cheeks, but smiling, safe in the knowledge that Maedhros would come for him eventually. He only had to wait.

But Maedhros had not come for him.

Somewhere down the line ‘Ereinion is at risk if I keep him with me in the aftermath of a battle I lost’ became ‘Ereinion is at risk if I keep him with me,’ and his mind wouldn’t allow him to believe that anything else could be true. Elrond told him about how Maedhros was distant--not unkind, but the kind of person who’d rather spend an afternoon sitting in front of a window, staring out and looking for potential threats on the horizon than play with his makeshift nephews.

It hadn’t been the last thing that Maedhros had sent him. The last thing that he’d sent him was a note in the hands of a lost half-elven prince that read:

_We went to collect the Silmarils. I won’t be back. Please take care of the twins; they’re the ones missing from Sirion._

_\- Maedhros_

Maedhros was blunt, but not that blunt. Gil-galad wondered how much Maedhros had known he was going to do at the time of writing it. A terrible gut feeling told him that the answer was ‘all of it.’

He was pulled from memory by the sound of a knock at the door. He placed the letter back into the chest and locked it, before setting it down next to the corner of his desk.

“Come in.”

“Celebrimbor to see you.”

 _That_ piqued his interest.

"Tell him to wait in my office. I'll be right down."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!! Please leave a comment if you enjoyed it and, as always, suggestions of theories and guesses as to what's coming are always welcome (and very fun!!)


	6. Dior

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Celebrimbor comes to Gil-galad with terrible news and an important gift. Dior faces up to the fate of himself and his sons, as well as the three most infamous Fëanorians.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little bit of a break from form here, hope it's ok!

The light of the sunrise spilt into the room in pools of gold and honey, bathing Celebrimbor in a warm glow that made him look like a part of the warmth. He stood at the centre of the floor mosaic (very carefully chosen--Fingolfin’s heraldic device) watching the pink stain the clouds. If Gil-galad looked closely enough, he gave the distinct impression of a person who was vibrating very slightly on the spot. He held his hands together, rapping silver-tipped nails against silver rings, the sound a pleasant chink in the emptiness contained within those white walls. 

Gil-galad cleared his throat. He jumped. 

For a fraction of a second, he stared, before bowing. “Your Majesty.”

“Celebrimbor, what--”

“If, say--” he straightened himself up-- “I said that I had, perhaps, been woefully mislead in some form or another and may require some immediate form of comfort and/or assistance, would you be the type of person to say ‘I told you so,’ or the type to sit down and hear me out?”

“Annatar,” he muttered. 

Celebrimbor nodded, biting his lip. “Annatar,” he repeated, staring at the ground. 

“Would you like to have something to drink?” Gil-galad reached out and squeezed his shoulder. He flinched. 

“Tea?”

He nodded. They sat down at a table in one of the many little side rooms in Gil-galad’s quarters; he hadn’t intended for them to end up that big and labyrinthine, but in hindsight, he seemed to have been subconsciously trying to replicate the endless corridors and hidden rooms in the backs of cupboards of Hithlum. Just a little prettier, and with much more natural light. It was as close to home as any of them could get those days. 

Celebrimbor hunched over its surface, tracing the patterns of enamel over the surface with his eyes. Gil-galad nodded to an attendant, who gave a quick bow and then hurried off, presumably to get tea. 

“So, start from the beginning.”

“A month before Narvi's death.” He tensed. “That's when I first saw him; didn't directly interact with him in any way, but our eyes met while he was talking to you.”

Gil scowled. “I remember that.” 

“Point--the point is that I already recognised him when he approached me, and you didn't exile him, or anything, so clearly it must be fine, right?”

“Celebrimbor, I could've told you--”

“And you did! You did tell me that I shouldn't trust him and I do  _ not  _ care to be reminded of that fact.” 

The stubborn admission struck him as rather Fëanorian. Of course, he wouldn't  _ say  _ that. Definitely not to Celebrimbor. “Go on.”

“But, the thing is, when he approached me, months had passed and I was grieving, and I was missing one of my best smiths, but he had the talent to fill their role--at least temporarily. And I said he wasn't a replacement--or, well, no--he was a replacement, just not emotionally. Or, he wasn't  _ meant _ to be an emotional replacement, or--”

Gil held up a hand. “You're spiralling.”

“Right, sorry.” Celebrimbor took a shaky breath. “I made a stupid mistake. I trusted him; maybe I was being naïve, or I needed someone to fill that space, or I just didn't want to make the same decision my--Curufin would've, or--”

Gil-galad reached out and squeezed his hand. His voice seemed to rise with every word he spoke.

“Sorry, right, I was telling you about--you know what he told me?” Celebrimbor tightened his grip--he worried he'd cut off the blood flow. “He called you Maia-spawn.”

 

\---

 

It wasn’t as if he hadn’t noticed the lines forming around his eyes, or the stubble on his chin, but he didn’t like to think about it. As a child, perhaps, he could get away with being the way that he was, but in the body of a rapidly ageing adult, there was no hiding from the fate of Men. He stroked his infant son’s cheek delicately, trying not to think about things like legacy and life after death.

_ What if his sons were doomed to the same fate as him?  _

What if his entire line would all be doomed, only to find out that they weren’t like any of the others when they hit puberty and had already been betrothed or signed up to a job with a three-hundred-year contract? Still, he could shapeshift the lines away--keep the hair from growing. He could play at immortality, sitting in an ancient throne next to a wife three times his age. The question, of course, was would his sons be able to do the same? Surely they would take after their mother in some way--he only prayed it would be some way useful. 

 

\---

 

“What?”

“That's it. He referred to you like that once, and I never forgot. Because it was weird--it's weird, right? The only people who are related to a Maia are the line of Lúthien. He must've been confusing you with Elrond.” 

The attended cleared their throat and set down two cups of green tea on the table with a satisfying clink. Gil-galad thanked them as Celebrimbor reached into his pocket and pulled out a sachet. He tore it open, allowing the blue powder inside to spill out into the drink. It fizzed as the liquid turned blue. Gil-galad raised his eyebrows. 

“If ingested, the crystal can--”

“Never mind, I don't want to know.” It sounded like more Noldor magic--the kind that he'd never been able to get the hang of. 

Celebrimbor nodded. “Where was I?”

“Why you trusted Annatar? And my apparent partial-Maia status.”

“Right, that.” Celebrimbor stared at him for a moment, then started-- “He never said anything else about it. It really was weird. But I thought it was a poorly translated compliment at the time. You're certainly pretty enough.”

“There were no Maiar around to be having kids when I was born,” he sighed, “he was definitely thinking of Elrond.”

“Well. Daeron.” 

“Daeron?” It would be easier to play along. This was probably a welcome distraction from all of the panic his old friend was barely biting back. 

“I mean obviously not--you look nothing like him--but he was half-Maia--at least, according to anyone who's not Pengolodh or one of his students--and he wasn’t missing when you were born, plus, we have no way of proving that a potential illegitimate child wouldn’t be sent away to a place where Thingol would never find them--oh dear.” Celebrimbor looked up, meeting his eyes for only the second time since they’d sat down.

“That’s a brilliant conspiracy theory; I’ll file it away with the other Doriath one.”

“You don’t see it?”

“I think I’d know if I was a quarter-Maiar, Celebrimbor,” he said, “considering what all the rest could do. And my singing voice isn’t nearly good enough.”

Celebrimbor cracked a smile--a twisted smile with the traces of all of the nerves simmering within him, but a smile nonetheless. They both knew that what he was saying was insane, but it wouldn’t be the craziest thing he had ever heard. A while back there had been a rumour that he was Dior’s son--one of the twins--which he wouldn’t have minded if it didn’t completely undermine his position as High King of the Noldor. And he wouldn’t have minded that either, if the only three living descendants of Finwë actually showed any interest in that position.

Originally, they thought Galadriel might be a candidate, but she very quickly shot that suggestion down, saying something about preferring  _ not  _ to be constantly at risk of death by dark forces, since she actually had  _ real  _ responsibilities to take care of. Gil-galad would admit: that stung a little. 

There was a point where he wondered if the Noldor really  _ needed  _ a High King, but his advisors quickly dismissed the idea of a republic, citing ‘mass panic’ and ‘the people not knowing what’s good for them.’ It all seemed rather morally dubious, especially considering that they knew that if he wasn’t in charge, then their positions would be at risk. Still, he wouldn’t be able to just throw a community into democracy out of nowhere and without any preparation other than the knowledge that the Avari managed to make it work. 

“Gil?” Celebrimbor nudged him in the leg with his foot.

“Sorry, got lost in thought for a moment.”

“The thing is, I think that was when I started to realise something was off, because the more I thought about it, the less it seemed like a compliment. Who uses the word ‘spawn’ to compliment somebody?”

“Annatar, if we turn out to be wrong.”

Celebrimbor started to bounce his knee as he sat, taking nervous sips of the blue-dyed tea. “That wasn’t it, though. There was more. He didn’t tell me who he worked for and he would vanish for months at a time without anyone knowing where he went; at first, I thought he must be reporting back to Aulë, or whoever, but he never seemed to bring Him up.”

Gil-galad nodded slowly. “So you were right? He turned out to be a servant of Sauron?”

“No--how do I say this? Annatar isn’t a servant of Sauron; he  _ is  _ Sauron.”

 

\---

 

Dior had been expecting something like this to happen. He knew what they were capable of; he’d heard the stories; he’d listened to the cautionary tales with an open ear whenever Thingol called him over to stand at the foot of his throne and pay heed. He had been sitting in that very throne when they arrived.

_ “Another messenger from Maedhros?” _

_ “Maedhros, himself, sire.”  _

The guards had kept them away for long enough, but there were so many--six brothers with six battalions, all marching on the same city. 

Only the three made it to the hall. He hoped the two eldest and the youngest were dead.  _ Sincerely _ , he hoped--prayed for it, but the three were cocky and vengeance was only mixed with two of their motives. 

“You must be Dior,” the tallest one said--he stood out from his brothers for the cascade of pale ginger hair that fell from the point where it was pulled back with a clasp of bronze. “Aren’t you a pretty little thing?” He must be Celegorm. Whoever called him ‘the Fair’ had been making a scathing joke.

“If you come any closer, I’ll kill you,” he growled through grit teeth. 

Celegorm drew his sword. “Try me. I have your sons.”

The horror that slipped through him was slick. For a moment, he lost composure, searching for Nimloth’s eyes on the walkway at the other end of the hall. Mistake. Caranthir followed his gaze. Just as she loosed the arrow, he pushed his brother to the side and began to climb.

The ensuing fight was bloody and too fast and too chaotic. Somehow Nimloth managed to push Caranthir over the walkway, only for Curufin to come up behind her and slit her throat. Then Celegorm was upon him, quick on his feet--a part of him hadn’t expected the hunter to be the kind of person with any sort of agility or dexterity, but he moved almost too fast to perceive. He jumped out of the way of his knife, climbing back up onto the throne and loosing another arrow, this time into Curufin’s chest. He collapsed, coughing blood. Celegorm wavered, then retreated back to his brothers, pulling their quickly expiring forms up against him. 

Dior panted. “You’ll pay for what you’ve done.”

He loosed a final arrow just as he caught the glint of Celegorm’s blade being drawn. It hit its mark, embedding itself in his heart. Then he looked down to see what the Fëanorian had dealt him in return. 

The hilt of Celegorm’s sword protruded from his chest. He stared down at it with a grim fascination. He’d  _ thrown  _ it. 

He let out a short, mirthless laugh, then watched as his body collapsed away from him. 

 

\---

 

“Sauron is coming,” Celebrimbor said, the intensity reigniting in his eyes, “and there won’t be any stopping him.”

“That’s not true; we have Numenor on our--”

“Do we?” Celebrimbor snapped. “Do we  _ really  _ have Numenor on our side? Or is that just how you and Elrond like to kid yourselves because it hurts too much to admit that those people are nothing like Elros?” He took a few breaths. “Sorry, I shouldn’t--”

Gil-galad squeezed his shoulder. “It’s okay. You’re right.”  _ And you’re scared. People act out when they’re scared.  _ Celebrimbor very rarely lost his temper. He didn’t like to act in any way that could potentially tie him back to the man who raised him. 

He frowned. “This sense of doom...I know how Dior must’ve felt when he received Maedhros’ letters.” He shifted in his seat, reaching into his pocket again and pulling out a small, polished, ebony box with a silver latch. “I have something for you. For safety, or luck, or power. I’m not sure what, but I made them when I started to have second thoughts about Annatar.”

He handed the box to Gil-galad. Inside were two rings--one shining red, almost with a flame flickering within, and the other a misted blue--he looked back at Celebrimbor. If the mood wasn’t so grave, he probably would’ve made some joke about him needing to branch out some more, if he was getting that desperate. Instead, all he said was, “I don’t understand.”

“The red one’s Narya, and the blue is Vilya; they’re rings of power.”

“They’re beautiful, but I’ve never been able to do magic like--”

“Please, they should work for you. You’re who I had in mind.”

“I am?”

He nodded. “I mean, hypothetically, they’d work for anyone, but they’ll definitely work for you.”

“Thank you,” he said, “but I can’t possibly keep both.”

“That’s alright. Do as you see fit, just keep at least one.” Celebrimbor nodded, then reached out and took his hands, the look in his eyes intense. “It’ll keep you safe.”

Gil-galad nodded. Celebrimbor let go. 

“I’ll be going.” He stood up. “Sauron will know what I’ve done soon enough. May the Valar look favourably upon you, your Majesty.” He bowed deeply. 

A horrible feeling in his gut told Gil-galad that would be the last time he saw him alive. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, let me know what you think, if there are any theories you'd like me to write about, and who you think's coming next! Shine did grace me with the idea that Sauron could be Gil-galad's father and that was so horrifying that I haven't stopped thinking about it since. It's...weirdly plausible. Love you all!!


	7. Aegnor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gil-galad decides to visit Numenor undercover after a long stretch of silence in correspondence gets him worried. 
> 
> Aegnor decides that he's made a mistake. Andreth doesn't agree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was excited to write this one!! Hope the Numenorian names are ok!

He knew it was bad when Pharazon stopped returning his letters. Of course, he shouldn’t have been surprised, his advisors would say,  _ he couldn’t be trusted anyway, all he is is the enemy of our enemy _ . He didn’t like that approach, though; that way it was too easy to let things go wrong without ever having the chance to stop them. Even when things were rough, he would at least get a choppy reply and some sort of instruction to not come and visit for a while from Elrond, but now all he had was silence. He wasn’t comfortable with silence. In a world where your aides would write replies for you if they thought you were too busy to read a letter, silence was a conscious act.

The boat settled against the pontoon with a jolt. He pulled his headscarf further around his face; while he was almost certain that most people there wouldn’t recognise him, the ears would still be a sure giveaway. People hurried down the gangway, keen to get back onto dry land. Ossë was changeable and few were so comfortable putting their lives into his hands. He walked with the crowd. Better for blending in.

He stopped for a second, listening to the waves lapping against the harbour walls--if he let his focus slip far enough, he could convince himself that he heard singing. He allowed himself the luxury of turning to watch the sunset, basking in Arien’s warmth, then threw her up a prayer; he’d need it. 

“Hey, mister,” a young man called over to him from the pier in Adûnaic. “You look lost.”

“Just appreciating the evening,” he called back, mirroring his accent. The young man approached him.

“It is beautiful; are you new around here? I haven’t seen you before.” 

“Yes, I just got here.”

“What’s your name?” 

“Azarzâir,” he answered (he’d come prepared with a cover), turning to look at the younger man. He was several inches shorter, built like a sailor and with the kind of nimble fingers that looked like they could tie even the most complex knots in less than a minute. He watched him with warm, dark brown eyes that flickered with some hidden light of spirit. “You?”

“ Azrabêl,” he said. Gil-galad smiled at the reference. “Would you like me to show you around?”

He nodded. Azrabêl stepped to allow him past toward the city, and they began to walk. Over to the east, it looked as if the sun had already set, with dark storm clouds rolling in over the land. They gave the evening a sense of approaching doom. He hoped it was just that. 

Armenelos wasn’t so different to the last time that he had been there, aside from the people, but people always changed. They dressed differently; spoke with new dialects and words; behaved with new traditions and customs. He remembered their optimism under Elros’ rule, and the growth of their faith in the Ancestors; their devotion to Uinen during Aldarion’s reign; now, they looked scared. He smiled at a young woman standing in a doorway, nursing her baby. She didn’t smile back. 

“Is everyone here okay?” He asked.

Azrabêl tensed, eyes flitting to two armed guards standing at the end of the street. They bore an insignia he hadn’t seen before--it looked like a reimagining of the old emblem of the King’s men. “They’re fine. What would you like to see?”

“The best sights that you have.” Gil-galad turned to look back down the street; the woman had gone inside. 

“Well, we have a number of great statues; some pretty buildings; the harbour--obviously--and the food here isn’t so bad either.”

“How about we go in reverse order? Food first, it’s been a long trip.” He laughed, trying not to stare at those guards for too long.

Azrabêl smiled, “naturally.” He led him down the gap between two buildings and they followed a winding trail throughout the back alleys and tight passages that divided up the streets until, eventually, they came out into a market square. 

Most of the stalls were closing up, but Azrabêl led him to one serving some type of savoury pastry and bought them both one that was dyed with a bright red star. As he was offering his change, the man at the stall laughed and shook his head. 

“Only a monster would make his cousin pay for food.”

Azrabêl grinned. “This is Lâiattô. Lâiattô,  Azarzâir ”

Gil-galad bowed his head in greeting. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“And you--you’re tall, aren’t you?”

“I get it from my father, may his soul rest well,” he said, careful to imply that his father was one-hundred-percent mortal. Azrabêl handed him one of the pastries, then took a bite of his own and sighed with contentment. Gil-galad gave his a try--his mouth filled with the taste of delicately spiced vegetables. 

“Good, right?”

He nodded.

“You’ve already seen the harbour, so how about I take you up to look at the palace and the temple.” Azrabêl nudged him in the side. 

“Wait, I’ll come, too--” Lâiattô pushed the remainder of his stock into a woven wicker basket and pulled down the awning from his stall. “I’m probably not getting any more customers today, anyway. We ought not to get too close to the temple, though.” He shot his cousin a look. Azrabêl nodded gravely.

“Wait, why? Don’t you worship in the temple?”

“The temple is...well, you don’t want to walk in on anything that you shouldn’t.” Azrabêl lowered his voice to barely a whisper. “The High Priest really gives me the chills.” 

Lâiattô hefted the basked up against his hip. “Let’s just walk, shall we, dangerous to talk in one place.”

Gil-galad tried to ignore the rising unease as they made their way out of the market square. He listened to the cousins talk; Lâiattô had just welcomed a new baby into his family, but his wife was afraid they wouldn’t be able to feed it, what with the King’s men being suspicious of him. Apparently, they had ways of cutting off business to those who they suspected weren’t on their side. He recalled the several unsold pastries.

They continued to climb towards the white stone building, but Azrabêl stopped them just short of its steps. Gil’s eyes were drawn to a single trickle of fresh blood pooling down at the bottom of the steps. 

“Don’t look,” Lâiattô breathed. He forced his gaze back up to the pure white stone, which now, upon closer inspection, seemed significantly less pure. 

Someone stepped out onto the steps, gold hair catching the last of the sunlight. They were dressed in all-black robes and heavy gold jewellery, set with black stones that seemed to suck in the light. They raised what he realised, with horror, was a human heart up to the sky and yelled something in a language that he didn’t recognise. As the sun sank below the horizon, leaving behind only the blue of a rapidly-darkening world, fire exploded from their fingertips, burning it to ash.

His eyes widened.  _ Sauron.  _ So  _ this  _ was what Pharazon had done with his prisoner. 

“This is allowed?” He hissed.

“He’s the king’s consort, so we can’t say anything. Now, shut up.” Azrabêl grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him away. “Let’s go and look at the Ancestors’ statues.”

He led him swiftly away from the temple, though Gil-galad couldn’t help but feel as if Sauron’s gaze was following them as they moved. Knowing him, he wouldn’t be surprised. The sight of him there--all that he could think about was Celebrimbor’s mangled form and all of the ways he’d like to tear his beautiful face apart. 

“I didn’t know he was the king’s consort,” Gil-galad murmured as they found themselves in a quieter part of the city. 

Azrabêl glanced around. “No one likes it, but there’s nothing we can do.”

“What about M--” He caught himself. “What about Ar-Zimraphel?”

“Let’s not talk here,” Azrabêl whispered, “the King's men are everywhere.”

He led him to a square lined with columns--the forum of ancestors--he breathed a sigh of relief to see that it was just as he remembered it. Haleth with her spear; Morwen, her children at her side; Bëor dressed in his old regalia; Andreth, holding a scroll open to onlookers. They each had two golden dishes; one between their feet, and the other on the floor in front of them. He approached Andreth’s statue and looked down at the offering bowls. The first was filled with water, flowers floating in the liquid, and the second contained money and food. Her statue, alongside Morwen’s, seemed to be the most popular. He dropped a few silver coins into the dish. Azrabêl murmured a prayer. 

“We have a little statue of her at home, too--one of the ones with the baby.”

“Represents new ideas, doesn’t it?”

“Well, traditionally, yes.” Azrabêl smiled slightly. “But my mother has her own guess. She used to say--when I was little--that the baby was High King Gil-galad.”

“Really?”

“She likes to think that we aren’t so different, you know? Elves and humans. And half-elves rule us best. Not sure how  _ I  _ feel about that, but it’s a nice sentiment.”

He looked back over her statue, taking in her countenance with a new light. “It’s beautiful.”

 

\---

 

Aegnor had made a mistake. 

Or, rather, he had made a series of mistakes, each one increasingly dire,  and each one increasingly worthy of his brother’s teasing. But this one was the worst. He felt sick.

Andreth stirred in her sleep.  

There was nothing more strangling than that cold horror that tightened in his chest; his stomach; his throat, and all he could think about was how he couldn’t under any circumstances risk waking her and how he couldn’t under any circumstances, risk leaving. He tried to find some sort of explanation or justification in the night before, retracing the steps through his memory.

They were drinking, and she was beautiful. 

Not beautiful in the same way that his mother had been beautiful, or really anyone from home. Not beautiful in static position, illusion to be ruined by even the slightest expression of any emotion stronger than ‘amusement’ or ‘subtle melancholy.’ She was beautiful when she laughed, loud and deep; she was beautiful when she grinned and when she let her disgust play on her face. She was beautiful in motion, and he was ruined. 

They were drinking. They had been drinking. Why? He couldn’t remember exactly; it was a celebration of something--maybe a birth, or a wedding--and they’d left the stifling heat of a room full of people to sit outside, and she had joked--something about his brother--and he had kissed her. Her laugh was so beautiful. 

Then he’d apologised. For not asking. For kissing her in the first place. For even being there; for everything. And she had told him to shut up and kissed him again, and he didn’t want her to stop. 

Then they--he felt cold and sick and he didn’t want to leave. He wanted to bury his face in her hair and go back to sleep and forget who he was.

But he couldn’t stay, so he would have to leave. He would have to leave and he would have to pray and he would have to never come back. He was ruined, and she was still beautiful. 

It was the gift of his people that they could move in silence, their weight barely disturbing the world around them as they made their way through it. It had always been a blessing and, then, as he slipped from her bed to find his clothes and his sword, it was even more of one. Or, was it a curse? Part of him wished that she would wake and beg him to stay--but, no, she wasn’t the begging type. She would  _ tell  _ him to stay, and he would have to obey her.

But he was a knight before he was anything else, and he had a king to serve.

He caught the reflection of his face in a mirror--elven crafting, must’ve been a gift from Finrod--and paused. He looked more alive. His cheeks held more colour, and his lips were fuller; even the scar on his chin seemed to have faded slightly. With a start, he realised that he looked  _ happy.  _

“What’s the rush?”

He froze. “You’re awake.”

“Have been for a while; you still can’t tell when a woman just wants to rest her eyes?”

“My people don’t sleep in the same--”

“Ah, so you’re feeling bad. It’s always bad when you slip back into ‘your people’ and ‘my people’ and ‘you’ and ‘we,’ don’t think I don’t notice.” She propped herself up on her elbow. He tried not to meet her eyes. He failed. “What’s wrong?”

“I have to leave.”

“Okay, why do you have to leave?” She pulled herself up so that she was sitting, cross-legged on the bed, sheets mercifully covering her lower half. “Are you coming back? Do you feel bad because we had sex, or is it some other, hidden reason that isn’t written all over your face?”

Upon running through her list of questions, he found that there wasn’t a single one that he would be able to answer to tactfully avoid the last one. Instead, he settled for a murmured, half-hearted, excuse of “my King--”

“Oh, yes, of course, your king needs you. I understand.” She reached out for her undershirt and slipped it on. “But, really, tell me.”

“I’m just...afraid.”

“Of what? That you’ve got me pregnant and, oh no, now we have to raise a beautiful little half-elf baby together? What a tragedy that would be.”

Silence settled over the conversation, then sunk in. 

“Oh no, that was it, wasn’t it?”

“I don’t--”

“Aegnor,” her voice softened, “if that’s what you’re afraid of, we can talk about it. It is a  _ bit  _ scary as a possibility.”

“You don’t seem very afraid.”

She shrugged. “I’m not too concerned; I mean, there’s a chance--always--I just don’t think it’s very big or, y’know, I wouldn’t have done anything.”

He reached down and slung his knife onto his belt. “I’m still--that doesn’t put me at ease.”

Andreth shook her head. “Of course, it wouldn’t. Your entire family is a mess of anxiety and complex trauma.”

Would she stop him if he bid her goodbye and walked out of the door? “Do you understand that I can't stay?” Maybe he asked because he wanted her to say no. 

“I understand why you think you can't.”

“I--” he choked-- “I can't lose you.”

“Then you're a fool.” She stood, pulling her skirts up around her. “If you leave now, you'll lose me sooner.”

“But you'll always be alive in my memory.”

Andreth shook her head and sighed. “I'll never understand the way you elves think. I've got a good few decades left in me before there's any risk of death and, Aegnor, I can't wait for you in the same way that you can wait for me. I can't wait for peacetime, or for the Valar to come down in some heavenly chariot and tell you everything is all okay. Do you love me?”

“Yes--”

“I won't be young forever; if you want a life with me, then you have to  _ stay.”  _

He could stay. He could let her words sway him, and he could stay, and they could go somewhere safe--if such a place even existed--and try and carve out some sort of life together. She could tell him to stay and he would. He would do anything that she told him to. 

“Go,” she said and his heart fell. “Go, if you need to. I won't stop you. This has to be your choice.”

And he would do anything that she told him to. 

 

\---

 

“Sire--”

Gil-galad shrugged the shawl from over his head as soon as he was back in the palace. “Prepare my travelling clothes.”

“Sire?” 

“And summon the war council. I'll be back within the month, I just need to look for someone--something.” He turned to the attendant. They were frowning. “Please, don't worry, I've not gone mad.”

“What happened in Armenelos, sire?” 

He hesitated a second. “Things are just a little--” the word eluded him-- “a little  _ strained  _ politically. I obtained some rather interesting information that I’d like to follow up on, though.”

“Oh?”

“Of course, it could be a dead-end, but I need to at least try.”

“Where are you going?”

He knew he wouldn’t be the first. He wouldn’t even be the most dedicated, and there really wasn’t enough time, but, “I’m going to try and find Maglor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment if you enjoyed and lmk what your predictions are!


	8. Maglor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gil-galad searches for Maglor, the only person who might be able to tell him something new about his origins. He doesn't expect to find him. Maglor is introduced to his new nephew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. so i kind of have his headcanon about maiar and that's that they inherently have an ability to know where the song is going. ie. theyre basically psychic and have premonitions
> 
> 2\. they also have generic magic, can do cool stuff to themselves and other people (see: literally everything about luthien)
> 
> 3\. daeron is luthiens brother in like a total of one (1) version of canon but, since it exists, i get to use it
> 
> 4\. this means daeron is also melian's son
> 
> 5\. i refuse to believe he and maglor never met and weren't at the very least friendly towards each other. like, dude. they have so much in common.

Of course, he hadn’t expected to succeed, so finding himself sat alone on the beach watching the waves roll in and with nothing to show for two weeks of looking wasn’t exactly a surprise. Things were bad, too; he would have to go back soon. He would have to say,  _ no, I didn’t find him, stop rolling your eyes, Elrond.  _ Ah, Elrond, who had searched for years, until Gil-galad had to tell him to pretend his father was dead just so that he could get on with his life. 

The thing about Maglor was that he didn’t want to be found.

Gil-galad tried to tell himself that was fair. Maglor thought that he was the worst person alive; that he was a danger to all those who knew him so, of course, he didn’t want to be found. Who, in that situation, would? The problem with Maglor was that people wanted to find him. More specifically, Gil-galad wanted to find him. 

Maglor was several degrees of separation away from the only person who actually reliably had a good guess of where he came from, but he would’ve got his information from Maedhros, and Maedhros got his from Fingon, so he was probably the closest person alive to a source. That was, if he was still alive, but he didn’t want to entertain the possibility of the Fëanorion being  _ that  _ impossible to find.

Sand slipped between his toes as he dug them deeper into the ground, taking refuge from the hot sun. 

Somehow, the combination of Celebrimbor's comments and Azrabêl's mother's theory had made it imperative that he find out exactly what was going on. And soon, before it got too late. He could feel some ill-defined doom closing in around him as he went about his life.

There had been a time when he was convinced his father was Maglor. It made sense. Maglor had been married; no one knew exactly what he'd been up to while he was guarding the Gap; not to mention no one knew exactly what had happened to Calima. She, like her husband, had vanished without a trace. The house of Finwë seemed to have made it a habit. 

Elrond liked the theory. Gil-galad didn't buy it. 

Why, if he liked kids so much, would Maglor send his (then) only son away to be raised as his cousin's child? Why not be transparent about exactly who he was related to? To which Elrond had responded,  _ “I never said you were his son by his wife.”  _ Gil-galad had rolled his eyes. 

All anyone actually knew about Maglor was that he was a fine soldier and a decent person--his romantic habits were completely lost to history. Elrond insisted that he knew but, upon pressing, most of his ideas were the speculations of a curious child. 

It occurred to him that maybe it'd be easier to look for Calima instead. The information wouldn't be as good, but she'd probably still have some idea of what was going on. She was a mysterious figure though; a Noldorin tailor; known for her skill with throwing knives; designed half of the ceremonial robes of the house of Finwë. Her marriage was like a very secure sponsorship deal. He'd only ever seen one portrait of her, half-eroded by damp and mold, but her face was intact--deep brown eyes, sharp features, a sly smile that made him shiver. Pale and slender and ginger, there was no way in all of Arda that she was his mother. 

The sea sang. In the back of his mind, unfocused, he could hear it's melody. Sad, always, constantly mourning and murmuring tales of times long gone. Maglor's song would echo through the waves for all eternity. 

He froze. Like a breath of wind, he felt the weight of someone standing behind him. 

 

\---

 

Maglor was on edge. Of course, that was a normal occurrence and was, by this point, to be expected of any time he was made to travel away from his soldiers for even just a few days, but this time it was worse. Visits to Himring were uncomfortable; Maedhros had far more soldiers than he, and the place was run like the military complex that it was--the gap was dangerous, but at least he knew everyone there by name, and at least he knew who exactly he was fighting for. Maedhros met him at the gate. Maglor surveyed him--perhaps he, too, knew who he was fighting for. 

“Whose is the child?” He asked, then, as a customary afterthought, “hello, Nelyo; it’s been a while.”

“Kano--” his brother pulled him into a one-armed hug-- “Fingon’s son, didn’t I write?”

“I didn’t read.” Maglor shrugged. “It was a cold night, and by morning I’d forgotten you’d even sent me anything.”

He didn’t elaborate on exactly why it being a cold night made things a problem; some secrets were meant to be shared with his older brother, others were meant to be kept close to his chest, under lock and key for all eternity. Or rather, some secrets would never see the light of day, known only to the darkness of the halls of Mandos, there on his tapestries for all the dead to see. Nothing was ever truly secret. Anyway, Maedhros worried too much as it was.

“That’s not like you.”

“Nothing is like me anymore.” Maglor smiled at the child, staring at him with a wide-eyed fascination. “And what’s your name?”

“Ereinion to us,” Maedhros answered for him, “Gil-galad to everyone else.”

“Ereinion--” Maglor smiled. “How poetic. And how obvious.” He had been tolerating his brother and his cousin’s shenanigans for years--by some miracle of fate, or divine favour, or simple luck, they had managed not to get caught, but this sort of thing was blatant, and blatantly dangerous. 

“It wasn’t my decision.” 

Maglor sighed. “Of course, not. May I hold my nephew?” He had seen weirder things and the solution, he always found, was usually to just accept them and move on. There were bigger things to worry about than a baby prince. 

Maedhros handed him the baby. Ereinion whined for a moment, reaching back after his father, but Maglor won him over with a softly spoken, “let’s give your dad a break, hm?” and the offering of lots of shining golden necklaces to play with for his trouble. 

“We need to talk about your outpost,” Maedhros said as they walked.

“What about it?”

“You only have nine men.”

“Is this about your obsession with my--please don’t put that one in your mouth, sweetheart--ability to defend my territory? I can assure you, I managed just fine with eight men before Cubineth showed up; nine is almost too many.” He prized a particularly jewelled charm from Ereinion’s grasp. “I have my ways.”

“What ways, Kano? How can you prove to me that you’re safe?”

“I sing.”

Maedhros shook his head. “Every time.”

He wouldn’t know. They had been educated on the power of song since they were little children, able to curl up peacefully in their parents arms, unafraid of a war waging around them, whether it be political or physical--he envied that his infant nephew still had that luxury, and mourned that one day he wouldn’t. But, just because they had both been taught the same thing, didn’t mean that they had understood it identically. Maglor understood the power that he held, uniquely, above all other beings, for  _ magic.  _ Most singers were healers, but he was a soldier, and he knew his trade well. 

“Would you like me to lie to you? To tell you that I bargained with the orcs? That I summoned our father’s spirit from the depths of everlasting darkness to imbue my childish taunts with unseen power?” Maedhros flinched at the reference to their oath. “What would you like me to say; that I have succeeded in the one area that no one else has? I have allied with Doriath? I have enlisted the Avari?”

“I would love if that were your answer, but I wouldn’t believe it.”

Maglor held back a smile--no, Maedhros would not believe any of those things, but they weren’t lies. Not entirely. “But I tell you the truth--that I sing, and you doubt. I wield a power that few can ever truly comprehend, why not try to be one of them?”

Maedhros shook his head. 

“Do you believe me, Ereinion?” He turned his attention to the baby, who had been staring up at him as he spoke. He tapped him on the nose. “Do you comprehend?”

The child giggled. 

Maedhros sighed. “Let’s just go and eat.”

 

\---

 

Maglor looked like a corpse. His eyes were ringed with purple and black; his hands were so spindly that his bones could’ve been needles; his cheeks were gaunt and missing their colour--the only indication of his time spent in the sunlight where the richening patterns of freckles spattered across his cheeks. 

“Ereinion,” he spoke in a rasp, all the smoothness from his vocal cords lost to the waves. Gently, he eased himself onto his knees next to him. “Why have you come here?”

“I needed to speak to you.” 

Maglor coughed. “What for?”

“I want to know who I am.”

“You’re Ereinion Gil-galad, High King of the Noldor; be direct,” he scolded. “There was once a time for delicate dances of metaphor and innuendo. This is no longer it.”

A part of him wanted to bow his head at the comment--he was used to being the oldest person in a room, but next to Maglor he was a child caught playing at being a grown-up. Age radiated from him. Not in any physical way, but in the way he spoke; the way he regarded him with eyes that had seen a thousand lifetimes play out in sequence. 

“Do you know who my parents were?”

Maglor laughed. It was a scary sound but, then again, everything about him was scary. “Not even Fingon knows who your parents were.”

“He doesn’t?”

“Well, makes out like he doesn’t, at least.” Maglor sighed. “I have my own theories--none of which actually involve him lying, mind you.

“Am I a Maia?” 

Maglor regarded him with a careful coolness. “No, but I have some idea of why someone might think you are.”

“What do you mean?”

The kinslayer tensed as he thought. “Back then, I had a friend--a Maia--they said that you were in danger. They said they could protect you in a small way, so I let them.”

 

\---

 

He found Daeron standing in the room alone. He couldn’t have snuck past the guards--not there--and his last letter was only dated from a week ago, so he wouldn’t have had time to travel to Himring in the first place, but there he stood. He watched as Ereinion played with the fabric of the curtains (there was little in the fortress for a child), frowning.

“You can’t be here.” Maglor leant against the door frame. “Not physically, not safely--what are you?”

“A projection, if it makes you more comfortable,” he said. His voice cast an echo, though, and Maglor wasn’t sure that a mere projection could create sound. Maglor approached and poked him in the arm; he felt solid enough. “He is doomed.”

“We all are.”

“Specifically and especially.”

“Can you elaborate?”

Daeron--or whatever this apparition was--shook his head. “I can only sense the shape of it, not the details--”

“And a parent can see the details, but not the shape,” Maglor finished the saying. Only some were gifted with foresight pertaining to others than their own children, Daeron had the gift. It caused him distress, most of the time because the shapes were jagged and sharp. He had refused to tell Maglor if he’d seen anything for him. Melian had it, too, he said, she had taught him how to suppress it. 

“He’s not safe, but his path is a long one.”

“It ends?” Maglor lowered his voice. He wasn’t sure exactly how much of their conversation Ereinion would be able to understand, but he didn’t want to take any chances. He needn’t have bothered: Daeron didn’t answer. 

“I can help him.”

“I still don’t know that it’s you.”

“I can give him a gift--”

“Not your gift.”

Daeron turned to meet his eyes--he looked strange in the distorted colours of the golden hour, as if someone had painted him to match the light, but had taken liberties with the design. His irises--usually green--were a grey so light that they were almost white. 

“Why are you here?”

“I felt as if I needed to be.” His expression softened. “You need to keep better track of your men, I came disguised as Cenethannon.”

Maglor shook his head, curse on his lips. To not notice something like that; he could've been killed. “I asked him to stay behind, didn’t I?” Daeron nodded.

“Your nephew--what is his name?”

“Ereinion, to me.” Maglor thought for a moment. “But probably Gil-galad to you.”

Daeron nodded, then took a few steps forward and knelt in front of the child. He placed his palm against his cheek and began to hum gently. The spell took only a few notes, but it left the taste of static floating in the air. 

“What  _ did  _ you do?”

“Like can tell apart like,” he said, “it’s a gift. It takes one, and now Ereinion Gil-galad, to know one.”

Maglor smiled. “You should probably go.”

Daeron squeezed his shoulder as he walked past, touch lingering for long enough that Maglor closed his eyes. When he opened them, his friend was gone, and the corridor outside was empty. 

 

\---

 

“Who--”

“That doesn't matter.” Maglor turned to meet his eyes properly. “You want to know who your parents are, I have a guess. Granted, made of what little I knew about how you ended up with your father.”

“I want to know.” 

Maglor nodded. “There were rumours--around the time that you would've been born--that the High King, Fingolfin, had been taking human lovers and, then, it would make some degree or sense for you to be his son.” 

“Oh,” Gil-galad breathed, then, as the question occurred to him, a welcome diversion. “Why me? Why wouldn’t you talk to Elrond?”

Maglor’s gaze set on some undefined point on the ground in front of them. “I couldn’t.” His voice sounded like broken glass. “Not after everything that I’ve done; not now that Elros is gone; not now that my quest was all for nothing--take your pick, they’re all true.”

“I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

“For not coming after you; for not trying to stop Maedhros; for what I’m planning. I’m sorry for all of it.”

Maglor regarded him in such a way that made him feel as if he already knew exactly what all of it was. “Just keep my son safe. “

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please comment if you enjoyed! thanks to shine for beta-reading also, just to tease: there might be an alternate version to this at some point where we explore some different plot threads. keep your eyes out for that! Also credit to the wonderful wren for naming a whole bunch of my ocs when i was stuck
> 
> also fun fact cano in latin means 'i sing' and i love that tolkien Did That


	9. Fingolfin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gil-galad finds himself in the midst of preparations for a battle he isn't sure he'll escape from with his life. Fingolfin makes arrangements to protect a family friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kata belongs to legitopal!! she is the best oc in the entire world and it was such a pleasure to be allowed to write her

“You must’ve got it from Maedhros,” Elrond said, tracing over the map of the battlefield with the blunt end of his quill. “All this planning.”

“I was still little the last time I saw him, so I doubt that.” His response was measured, careful not to tip off anyone else in the room who happened to be eavesdropping. “It’s just better to be organised.”

“Organised, yes.” Gil-galad tried to ignore the lilt in Elrond’s voice, but the way his gaze drifted towards a certain one of his advisors let him know  _ exactly  _ what he was thinking. They had been bothering him about the succession for weeks--ever since they’d started planning for whatever potential war Sauron waged against them, or they him. 

_ “And what happens if you die, sire? Who takes over?”  _

_ “No one, preferably.”  _ He wasn’t quite sure how to explain the lack of the enthusiasm that he had for monarchy after both the failings of Númenor and what seemed to him the failings of his own line. Every single high king had been killed--granted, not by one another and (probably) not by assassins, but killed nonetheless and, in Númenor, the ruler’s own people were their greatest threat. 

He wasn’t going to marry, and he wasn’t going to have children--not just for the sake of producing an heir to be forced to bear his burden after his death, and not even for love. Not that there had ever been anyone he had loved like that. 

The map before them was just one of several potential wargrounds. He hated it. He hated having to sit still and think things through and be prepared for every possible eventuality; what he wanted was to break into Sauron’s house and stab him in the face. Preferably repeatedly. And hard. And messily. 

Azrabêl, Lâiattô, Celebrimbor; and half of the father-figures in his life were gone because of him. He had no doubt that more would pay for the Valar’s inability to tie up all the loose ends. There had been a time when he thought that it was all over, but Sauron went free. They let him go. 

He looked back up at Elrond, lost in thought. He hadn’t told him about Maglor. It would hurt him, and he doubted his father’s excuses would be any help in convincing him to forgive his pointed absence. What Maglor had said had sounded half like the partially-forgotten reminisces of an old man with a broken mind, and half so painfully sober and aware that his words had been like a knife pressed against his stomach.

He would know the answers to his questions soon enough.

 

\---

 

Kata brought him tea, which was strange, because Kata didn’t like to do the normal things that a handmaid should do. At least, not without being told. Instead of material offerings of freshly baked rolls of bread or a new pot of ink, Kata offered words. He liked that about her, because she was a great deal wiser than anyone else he’d ever met, and she knew how to hold a conversation. She said it came with age. 

_ “If that were true, then I would be wise, too.”  _ Had been his response, to which she waved a hand and scoffed.

_ “Not that kind of age.” _

The cup settled on his desk with a gentle clink and he stared up at her. She was unreadable. “What is this for?” He asked.

“I need to speak with you about my daughter.”

“Vidria?”

Kata shook her head. “Asya.”

The younger one. She was barely an adult in his eyes--he remembered when she was still painting her face in crushed up flower petals and mud as if it was last week. Dread settled in. If Asya was sick, would he have the healers who knew how to treat her? They weren’t trained in human disease; just in poison and flesh wounds. “What’s happened?”

“One of your men went and knocked her up, is what happened.”

He wasn’t going to breathe a sigh of relief in front of Kata, but he might just save one for when he was alone again. “Who was it? I’ll speak to him.”

Kata slumped into the chair across from him, then took the tea back and had a sip. Just as well; he wasn’t one for tea, anyway. “The thing is: she claims she doesn’t know.”

“How can she not--”

“It was dark, they were drunk--any number of things, Fingolfin. I don’t believe her for one second, but she’s upset, so she has feelings and she probably cares about maintaining whoever-he-is’ reputation.”

Thoughts of a different line of inquiry filled his mind. He was the king. If anyone could intimidate such a weak-willed soldier into admitting what they’d done, then it’d be him. “And this person--he doesn’t know?”

“Oh, he knows,” Kata scowled, “even if Asya won’t admit he does.”

“I’ll find out--”

“That’s not actually what I was going to ask of you.”

He paused. “Oh.”

“The thing is; she has her betrothed, obviously, and she made a silly mistake, and it’s going to ruin everything for her. She can’t keep the baby--she can’t afford to keep it and she doesn’t want it. Do you know of anyone who could take it?”

The request wasn’t strange, but he wasn’t entirely sure it was one he could grant. His people didn’t like to raise kids in trying times; especially not in a place like Hithlum, so asking any to take in a child there would be a fruitless endeavour, and he couldn’t take the child himself without arousing suspicion. There were enough rumors circulating about him as it was--whether they were true or not wasn’t the question--but he would never be so careless as to allow the conception of a child, either way, and he could not allow his people to think otherwise. 

And that left: no one. 

No one, except--well, and if anyone was going to be gung-ho about potential scandal… He sighed. 

“I have an idea.”

 

\---

 

Gil-galad had some semblance of hope that the meeting with Elendil would prove helpful. They needed to act fast, and he seemed like a fast-acting man. For the most part, he had been right. They’d made ample progress on arrangements, and the stage was just about set for what would either be the battle to end all battles, or their death sentence. For the first time in several months, he caught himself feeling optimistic. 

“Your Majesty?”

“Yes--and no need to keep with such formality,” Gil-galad muttered, scanning through the meeting’s notes, ensuring that he hadn’t missed anything.

“I was wondering about territory.”

“Oh, of course--I’m assuming you’d be merging with the current human population?”

“In a way.”

Gil-galad paused. He didn’t like the sound of that. The tone was all off. 

“I must request your support in vouching for my rulership over the territory.”

“Rulership? You want to rule them?”

Elendil nodded. Gil-galad took a moment to consider the situation from other angles. Of course, being king must seem like the natural follow-up to Elendil--he had lived through the monarchy of Númenor, and he was of royal blood. It made sense. The problem, Gil-galad felt, was not in that area, but rather the fact that he wasn’t entirely certain any non-Númenorians would  _ want  _ to be ruled by him. 

“I’m afraid I can’t support that; they aren’t my people.” He added on the feeble excuse to keep the peace. He couldn’t lose their alliance over something so delicate. 

“They’d listen to you, sire.”

He considered the comment, then responded, quietly, “that doesn’t mean that they should.”

 

\---

 

When the messenger came to his quarters to tell him that his son had, by some freak accident or miracle of the Valar, acquired a baby, Fingolfin pretended to be shocked. There were only four people in the world who knew where the infant had come from, and he intended to keep it that way. Ambiguity was his ally. The page followed him all the way to outside his son’s doors, at which point he realised he’d have to dismiss him verbally--it wasn’t his fault, he supposed, he was new to the position and anxious to please. 

“You may go.” He waved his hand in the direction of elsewhere and hoped it didn’t read as him shooing the adolescent away.

There was a muffled wailing coming from within the room, which was to be expected. Then, a second of quiet. With a careful prod, the door swung open. Fingon turned to look at him, tense and with wide eyes first, then softening in relief. 

“What’s the baby’s name?” Fingolfin closed the door gently behind him--if the child had fallen quiet, he didn’t want to do anything to disturb them. Fingon eased. 

“His mother called him Gil-galad.”

He sat down next to his son on the floor. It wasn’t uncomfortable, what with the frankly ludicrous amount of carpets Fingon had insisted in adorning his room with, using the excuse that the tiles were too cold to walk on in the night when he needed to get up. At the time, Fingolfin had asked him what he would possibly need to get up for, though now an answer presented itself--or himself--quite clearly. “And what do you call him?”

“I don’t know. He cries so much, maybe I’ll just call him Bruinaeg.”

Fingolfin raised his eyebrows at the suggestion. Bruinaeg wasn’t exactly a name befitting a prince, let alone--Valar forbid--a king. “You wouldn’t be so cruel, son. Besides, he seems quiet now.”

“Wait.” Fingon glared at the--was that really what he was using as a crib? “You’ll learn.”

Something had to be done about the situation. He reached into the whatever-it-was and lifted the baby up--so small and fragile--then cradled him in his arms. Maybe his eyes were playing tricks on him--babies usually looked so similar to each other--but he could see Asya in him. His earthy complexion was her’s; the fat in his cheeks; the shape of his eyes--everything but his eyes, blue as the morning sky. With any luck, Gil-galad hadn’t inherited a single trait from whoever his bastard of a biological father was. Or perhaps it was design--he remembered when Asya was still a teenager and Fingon would sneak out into town with her, pretending to be one of her older brothers--she had so many that no one would bat an eye. 

The baby was transfixed on him, reaching for the beaded end of one of his braids. 

Fingon sighed. “Maybe you should take him instead.”

The thought was nice, but they both knew it wasn’t an option. He placed the baby back in its ‘crib.’ “I’ve no need for another heir,” he said, wrapping an arm around his son’s shoulders, “I have you.”

Fingon sank into the embrace. Part of him longed for a time when he was still young, and his son was just a baby himself, small enough to pick up and hold against his chest. The other part of him remembered that Fingon had been a difficult baby. Speaking of difficult babies, Gil-galad--or Bruinaeg--began to stir. 

“Oh, Eru have mercy,” Fingon muttered, pulling himself free. He lifted the baby back up and patted him awkwardly on the back. “Hush, it’s okay, Finno’s got you.”

The lack of--or twisted--familiarity caught him off guard. Fingon caught the look on his face.

“I feel weird calling myself his dad.” He looked sheepish. “I’m too young.”

So that was it. At least it was something that he could mature through. “You’re older than I was,” Fingolfin reasoned. 

“Then I’m too used to being a brother, or an uncle.”

The comment reminded him of his nephew. “You  _ did  _ notify Maedhros--” he paused to let the baby wail. 

“Of course,” Fingon replied, positively breezy in tone even as he winced at the sound. Fingolfin lamented the decision not to tell him in advance, but it was better to be safe, even if he trusted him. “He’s got great lungs.” The twitch at the corner of his son’s lips was both imperceptible and contagious--the amusement catching.

“Indeed, he has.”

 

\---

 

Maybe Maglor had been right. It would make sense for him to have been right; he was clever--no son of Fëanor had ever not been--and he had known Fingolfin well enough. It would make sense for him to hide his affairs by arranging for his son to raise their product, and it would explain why he hadn’t been crowned next after Fingon in a way far more substantial than the fact that he was little over twenty--a child. 

And this. This would make sense. 

He clutched his sword a little tighter, ignoring the way that his hands trembled as the great dark lord himself stared down at him. He forgot who he was surrounded by; he forgot his allies; he forgot his enemies; all he could think of was frustration, anger, rage, vengeance. And Fingolfin. How he understood, with stark clarity, the force that had driven him to abandon his kingdom and his remaining children just for the smallest chance at some sort of payment for what had been taken from him. 

Gil-galad stood his ground. If he had to die for this fight, then he would die kicking and screaming, doing as much damage and taking as many down with him as he could. 

He would not turn. He would not run. He would see this battle to an end, whether it be its or his. 

He would take his payment in blood, as all of the High Kings of Beleriand before him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're onto the home stretch now! One final chapter before this story comes to its close (I don't think I'm done writing Gil-galad, though). 
> 
> Please let me know what you thought, and, if you please, your guesses for the final chapter
> 
> (also points to anyone who recognised the throwback! I hope it wasn't too repetitive)


	10. Unknown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the end of his old life, and the beginning of his new one, Gil-galad muses on how far he's come and what he's learned, coming to terms with some truths that he always knew he would face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _It's finally done._
> 
> As much as I loved writing this, I can't say that I'm not excited for it to be over and to move on to new things!! (Although like,,I'm totally gonna rewrite the damn thing because writing a fic over the course of several months means inconsistencies and fatigue which need to be fixed!!)

The tapestries that met him were of glorious things; his coronation, impromptu but beautiful, as Cirdan lay the crown on his head before a cheering crowd, his eyes wide with the shock of the news that his uncle was dead, but also of the news that he came after him. He was crowned Ereinion Gil-galad, High King of the Noldor. No one asked who had seen it fit for him to be given that title. The crowd had cheered. The foreign prince had endeared himself to them in the time since his arrival.

Cirdan smiled, proud, as if he were his own son. 

The next was his last hurrah, where he stood, defiant, sword in hand. He didn’t dwell on that one.

But the third--oh, the third tapestry. The theme of the triptych had been obvious: his finest moment, his death, and his birth. His mother. He could see his mother. 

She dressed in blue robes, heavy fabric, conveyed even through the simplistic style of the weaving--she wore the beads around her neck of Beorian tribeswomen, and the golden cuffs around her wrists of a Hadorian lady. She had dark skin, and a cascade of thick, brown curls fell from her head, pinned back with a golden clasp. She looked afraid, but she held her composure, jaw set as she stood in the dark of night, stars above her, wind whipping around, clutching her newborn son to her chest. He was drawn in, brought close to run a hand over the contours and the texture of the thread, admiring the golden details and the glimmer and shine of silver moonlight hitting her jewellery. 

He had walked so far to get to the halls--the hope had been that if he got to Mandos fast enough, he would be able to bargain his way back out, but the Maiar had taken him by his arms and steered him into the room that had been prepared for him. 

And Maedhros had been waiting. 

“She’s my mother?” He asked, turning to meet his father’s eyes. He nodded. 

“As far as I know, yes.”

“How far do you know?”

“Not far enough. I didn’t ask enough questions--when you’re alive, you never do.” Maedhros paused for a second, a bemused look passing over his features. It was strange seeing his skin so clear and smooth; his nose so straight; eyes so bright. It was strange seeing him look peaceful like that, which was exactly what alerted Gil-galad to the fact that the maiar had ‘intervened’ with his father’s emotions again. “Her name was Asya,” he said, eventually, tone flat, “she was your nursemaid.”

“You knew her?”

“I spoke with her a few times. She and your father were friends--had been ever since she was a child.”

“I don’t remember her.”

“You were just a baby, Ereinion, you wouldn’t. She left to get married as soon as you didn’t need her.”

Gil-galad felt his stomach twist in a strange combination of disappointment and longing. “Did she not want to be with me?” He breathed, studying the face of the woman who supposedly was his mother, searching for some indication of resentment. 

“It wasn’t that.” Maedhros squeezed his shoulder. “You...she couldn’t look after you--she had a job and a life waiting, and people already knew you as the prince. You were never unwa--” He froze, mouth open for a few seconds. Gil-galad turned; there was no one else in the room but he made the best attempt he could to stare down whoever was playing with his father’s thoughts. 

“Who was my birth father?” He asked. 

Maedhros shook his head. “I wouldn’t know. Best kept secret in our entire extended family, probably,” he laughed. It was at that point that Gil-galad noticed how pointedly he avoided staring at the tapestry on the far left. 

“We should go and find--”

“Your father isn’t here.”

“What?”

“He left a while ago--the only reason he was staying was for me and I couldn’t let that happen. First off because, at the time, I was convinced I wasn’t worth it, but then because I knew it wasn’t fair.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in justice.”

Maedhros was quiet. Gil-galad watched him, waiting for some intrusive, therapeutic intervention to leave its mark on his expression, but the change didn’t come. The pause seemed endless, heavy; he hated it with a passion, but it felt insincere to change the subject.

“I don’t,” Maedhros said, cautiously, at last. “But that’s not to say that I don’t believe in doing the right thing; too many times have I made the wrong choice--no--there aren’t right and wrong choices--there are just choices, we apply meaning to them after the fact, based on how they turned out. Staying here...is not ideal, even if you’re with someone you care about.”

The nature of the family curse hit him, and it occurred to him that, should he be reborn, he might not actually see his father again. “Do you--do you think they’ll ever let you out?”

“Of Mandos? Who can say? But they let me out of solitary confinement. Maglor was right, I think, they won’t hold us to an oath we swore in their name if they’re the ones keeping us from fulfilling it.”

“I saw Maglor.”

Maedhros smiled. “How was he?”

“He was...alive.”

His father laughed. “That bad?”

“I’m sure he’ll be okay.”

“Oh, certainly. Otherwise, he’d end up here--although, I can see him as being the type who’d choose to become a wandering spirit, given the opportunity.”

“Elrond would hate that.”

“He would--which reminds me; I got to speak with Elros--just for a minute.”

“What did he say?”

“Not a whole lot--” Maedhros sighed-- “but he told me to tell you that he wished he could’ve given you a better goodbye, and to tell Elrond that he’s okay; that it’s all okay. It won’t be forever.” He frowned, then wiped the beginnings of a tear from the corner of his eye. “That’s strange.”

“Dad?”

“Yes?”

“Do you mind if I go and look for someone?”

He shook his head. “Not at all.” The relief on his face was enough to confirm that offering him space was the right move, no matter how much it caused the pain in his chest to twist back into active discomfort. Still, he had spent the past while with Maedhros, and he could probably manage to strike out on his own for at least a little while. And there was someone he wanted to speak with. 

 

\---

 

Aegnor looked different in person, though he wasn’t sure how much of that was to do with the fact that he was dead, and how much was to do with the faults of artistic interpretation. He sat alone, staring up at the wall in front of him--the scene wasn’t from his own life but from his brother’s. As he got closer, it became easy to tell why. 

The tapestry depicted Finrod and Andreth talking, laughing. 

Gil-galad cleared his throat. “Lord Aegnor?”

Aegnor turned to him slowly, then shrugged the hood from around his face, allowing his hair to fall free. He looked strange. Wild and unkempt, yet beautiful. He narrowed his eyes. 

Gil-galad found himself at a loss for what to say. “I--uh--My name is Ereinion Gil-galad, I am--was--High King of the Noldor.”

Aegnor nodded. The space he inhabited was not closed off from the other Fear as Maedhros’ had been, but they seemed to avoid him nonetheless. Perhaps it was because of how oddly silent he was, simply listening and taking things in. He turned back to the tapestry and shut his eyes, breathing softly. Aegnor was also the first person he’d seen bothering to imitate that particular bodily function, which struck him as odd; if anyone didn’t need to keep up practice, it was him.

Gil-galad wondered if he should just go. Standing and waiting felt strange.

Just as he was readying himself to give up and walk away, Aegnor raised and hand and spoke, soft and gentle, “come and sit with me, Ereinion Gil-galad.”

He did as he was told, waiting for Aegnor’s next few words with bated breath. He wasn’t sure why, but he felt as if he needed to cling on to everything he said for fear of forgetting or missing something important. 

“Why have you come here?”

“I felt--I felt as if I ought to speak with you.”

Aegnor regarded him with gentle eyes, contemplative. “I don’t think I was ever introduced to you when I was alive. When were you born?”

For a long time, that hadn’t been the easiest question to answer. It had seemed clear to him that he was adopted, meaning that his official birthdate probably wasn’t the same as his real one, but Maedhros had been able to make an educated guess for him when he asked. 

“First age, four-hundred and fifty-three,” he said. 

Aegnor nodded, satisfied with the answer. 

“Do you mind if I ask about--well--”

“Saelind?” He prompted. Gil-galad nodded, almost ashamed. It seemed as if that was the default feeling, speaking with these people of first age legend. He was a child that had stumbled into their world uninvited. Sometimes he found it hard to believe that he, too, was part of the legends of that time. He read the look of pain on Aegnor’s face as he looked back at the wall-hanging. 

“I’m sorry. I--”

“No. So few ask. So few want to come near me in the first place. Perhaps Finrod understood once, but he was whisked away at the first sign of some semblance of sanity, and they never brought him back."

“She was worshipped.” Gil-galad felt it was the right thing to say. “She was a symbol of human intelligence and wit. People loved her.”

A smile graced Aegnor’s lips. “That sounds like her.”

 

\---

 

It had come up in a conversation with Maedhros.

_ “What if you spoke with everyone you heard about? At least half are definitely wrong, but it might help.” _

_ “Are you asking just because you’re curious?” _

_ Maedhros shrugged.  _

He realised fairly quickly that passing the time until he was reborn by finding all the men who people had told him he looked a little similar to would be impossible. First of all, most of them weren’t  _ in  _ the halls anymore and second, there were just so many. So, he narrowed his scope down just to people he thought it would be interesting to talk to. It wasn’t a pre-rebirth goal but rather a general project of sorts. He figured that he’d have a lot of free time on his hands once he was alive again anyway. Non-ruling nobles tended to suffer that particular fate.

Dior was tricky. It was fairly clear that they had nothing to do with each other, but he still wanted to talk to him, maybe apologise. He wasn’t sure what for. 

When he’d brought it up to Maedhros, he’d tried to say something, but had been silenced. Gil-galad was beginning to wonder what it would take for them to get to have an honest conversation. After the first few however-long-it-wases, he considered how much trouble he would get into for distracting a Maia long enough with his own shenanigans to let his father complete a thought. 

_ Maedhros is the most damaged person here,  _ had been the explanation he was given when he asked. It didn’t satisfy him. 

Alone, Gil-galad wandered the halls, searching for the few remaining Doriathrim to remain in the halls. He found Beleg--a person he’d only heard about in the most heartbreaking passing--sitting in silent meditation next to a shimmering pool. He considered approaching him to talk, but he didn’t really have anything of substance to say, and it wasn’t as if he would remember Dior, or his passing well, having been dead for the whole ordeal. 

When he turned away, he found himself face to face with the strangest woman he had ever seen. She sat on a pile of cushions, the richly woven fabrics of her dress laid around her, only her white ankles visible to indicate that she reclined in ladies’ posture. But--no--they weren’t white, but the palest of silver, mattified by a thin layer of translucent skin. Her dress was decorated with scenes from myth and legend that shifted and changed into something new every few seconds, creating a moving tapestry of all history. Her face looked normal enough in construction, beautiful even--in the same way that a porcelain doll was beautiful, with only the barest hints of rosy pink to indicate life. But he was drawn more to her eyelashes, fluttering every time she blinked, a technicolour of red and yellow and blue. Her hair, too, was a gracefully done up mass of thread, loosely divided by colour, and held in place with silver needles. She pulled from it as she worked on a simple bit of embroidery.

_ Vaire.  _

She worked peacefully, with a satisfied smile on her lips.

Panicked, he wondered if it would be more respectful to greet her or to let her get on with her work, but she decided on his behalf. She turned the embroidery hoop so that the design--a single rose--faced him. “What do you think?” She asked, smiling gently. 

“Very beautiful, your Majesty,” he said, sinking into a bow, “though I can’t say I know that much about embroidery.”

“Neither did I until recently,” she said, “but the tapestries--there are only so many great events you can weave during peacetime.”

“Peacetime?”

She tapped one of the folds in her skirt, and the images shifted to form a moving scene. Sauron defeated. He opened his mouth to speak, but found no words--instead, he lowered himself to his knees. “They won,” he breathed. 

“Though I fear it cannot last forever,” she said, allowing the image to disperse back into what it had been before. “Was there someone you were looking for?”

He gaped for a moment. Vaire was the Queen of Mandos. Of course, she’d know. “Dior Eluchil.”

She sighed. “Of all the people to look for, he is one of those who cannot be found, I’m afraid.”

“What do you mean?”

“He isn’t one of ours. Mortal as his mother was, he resides with her.”

“I...see.” He paused for a second to think. “Then might I ask about his sons? I’ve always been curious,” he said,  _ and besides, I might be able to ease some of my father’s guilt.  _

“Those have not passed through these halls,” Vaire said, as she absentmindedly pulled the embroidery hoop around a fresh piece of fabric. “And they have not made great threads for themselves in the tapestry of fate.”

“So they’re alive?”

“Or quiet.” 

“Thank you, my Lady.”

Vaire nodded. Then held up her latest piece of embroidery. She had accomplished hours of work in a few seconds. “What do you think?” It was his own heraldic device. 

“Gorgeous, my Lady.” 

“Keep it.” She handed him the fabric. “At this rate, you should be able to leave soon--you might need a reference with which to identify yourself.”

He didn’t bother asking about the logistics of bringing with him something that he had been gifted while in an immaterial state. He had a feeling the answer would be cryptic anyway.

 

\---

 

He didn’t go home. 

On the first day of his new life, he sat alone in a public garden, shimmering veil wrapped around his face, keeping his identity hidden, and let the breeze kiss his skin. He had refused the offer for his rebirth to be announced--he didn’t want such a thing--but he still found it strange that no one took any notice of him. Most of the people in Aman wouldn’t recognise him, true, but it still seemed strange. 

The question that would define him, he supposed, was did he miss it? If he did, then was he a hypocrite? Or was he just behaving in a way that was natural?

He was so lost in thought that he didn’t notice the person sitting down next to him until they addressed him. “Ereinion.”

Familiar name, strange voice. He looked up. The person next to him had long blond hair, pulled into some distinctly non-elvish braids, and adorned with various accoutrements. For a second, he mistook him for Aegnor, before realising. He scrambled to find some way to show the appropriate respect--Finrod laid a hand on his shoulder. “Please relax.”

He wasn’t the smiling and lighthearted man that he had been told about, but he wasn’t cold either. 

“Sire--”

“How is your father faring?” 

Gil-galad found himself taken aback by the question, wondering why Finrod would care about that. Before recalling that they were cousins, of course, he’d care. There were so many in that family--all so distant--that he often forgot the connections between them. “I--alright, I think, better than before.”

Finrod nodded, then sat back, leaving a careful silence between them. He seemed quiet. Mournful.

He wondered if he should say something. On the one hand, he had plenty of questions for Finrod but, on the other, he wasn’t sure he wanted to ask them. What gave him the right to know such personal details of his life? What gave him the right to ask about points of hurt? He remembered what. 

“Sire, did you sire any children?”

Finrod turned back to look at him. “No one’s asked me that before.”

“That’s odd.” Gil-galad thought over his next words carefully. He didn’t want to risk offending him, but he had to  _ know.  _ “There were rumours--in Beleriand, during my time--that I was your son.”

“Impossible,” he said, amused, “I wonder who started those--although I can see how from certain perspectives that could be plausible.”

“I assume you don’t give those perspectives much credence.”

Finrod shrugged. “Can I ask  _ you  _ a question, Ereinion?”

“Absolutely.”

“Why haven’t you gone to see your father? You’ve clearly been back long enough to find clothes and a quiet place to hide away from everyone.”

Gil-galad bowed his head. Finrod rested a hand on his shoulder, lowering his voice, “whatever explanation you give, I promise you I’ll be able to understand.” There was a pain in his voice that made him wonder about just how happy and noble the third house of the Noldor really had been.

“I just--I don’t think I’m ready for that. Not yet. I don’t know what I’d say.”

Finrod nodded. “Is there anyone who you  _ do  _ know what you’d say to.”

He considered the question for a moment, then smiled, an idea coming to him. “Actually, I do want to thank Lord Orodreth.” 

 

\---

 

Orodreth wasn’t the first person to greet him with a hug, but he was the first living one, and that counted for something. It was uncharacteristic of him, which made him think that he hadn’t exactly been expecting his uncle and ward to drop by, but the gesture was nice and Gil-galad had missed real, physical touch. 

“Rodnor?” He said, pulling back from the embrace to study him. “You’re a lot taller than I remember.”

“You’re the only person who calls me that.” Gil-galad offered him a slight smile. “I wanted to thank you.”

“For what?” Orodreth quickly regained his composure, brushing himself off and straightening his posture. 

“For saving my life; for the name; for not leaving me out in the wild to die,” he listed, “and--I--I wanted to apologise for something, too.”

“The fact that everybody thinks you’re my son; that’s fine. That was the plan.” Orodreth sighed, then stepped aside to let them in. 

“Why?” Gil-galad followed him in. The house was peaceful and cosy; small windows let in little light, and heavy curtains hung all around the place. It reminded him of Nargothrond which, he supposed, would make sense. Hadn’t he built his chambers in Lindon to resemble Hithlum?

“Your father--High King Fingon--left you in a tricky position, having no legitimacy and no actual recorded ties to him other than the few eyewitnesses that had survived the battle. I thought, as much as I didn’t like it, that you, as the rightful heir to the throne, should be given the opportunity to receive it.”

“You helped me because of your sense of moral obligation?”

“And because he was fond of you,” Finrod whispered. Orodreth shot him a look. 

“I won’t keep you too long,” he said, “but I thought there might be someone you’d want to see.” He led him through into a cosy room at the back of the house. In one armchair, Finduilas was curled up perusing some heavy tome that he didn’t recognise. Across from her, Celebrimbor was fiddling with a golden chain. He looked up and let it slip from between his fingers. 

“Gil--” he stood up uncertainly. “You’re alive.”

“So are you.”

 

\---

 

Fingolfin’s house was on the outside of town, far away from anyone else’s--apparently, that was because it was the only place where they would get any peace. Grudges didn’t die easily. He stood in front of the door, staring down the knocker, wondering how much longer he could put off seeing them. He didn’t hate them; he just wasn’t certain he’d be able to maintain his composure, even if he knew that didn’t really mean anything at the end of the day when he was alone with his family. 

And he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. After so long, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the reality of who he was. He had his mother’s name; that was enough. 

He pulled back the knocker and let it fall, listening to the sound as it echoed throughout the house, waiting. 

He wished Celebrimbor had kept him longer.

The sound of footsteps, and then a latch being lifted. He couldn’t know who would be on the other side. Maybe Aredhel, or Argon. Someone who didn’t know him. The door opened. Or Fingolfin himself, that was possible too. 

For a moment he frowned, then his eyes widened. “Ereinion! Come in, please.”

The hall was big, with a polished floor of blue marble, adorned with various decorative symbols. It gave the appearance of walking upside-down on the underside of the sky. A twisting--yet not quite spiral--staircase was tucked into one corner, next to the door to the garden, or gardens? He couldn’t tell in the darkness, and he wasn’t sure he knew Fingolfin well enough to guess. Fingolfin smiled at him. 

“There’s a spare room if you need somewhere to stay.”

“Thank you,” he ducked his head in a quick bow. “Is--” For a moment he wavered, wondering what term was appropriately respectful, and if Fingolfin would mind, and whether he’d sacrificed his own right to call his father that by playing with propaganda in the way that he had. “Is Lord Fingon here?”

Fingolfin raised his eyebrows. 

“Is my father here?” 

“Not at present, I’m afraid, but we have all the time in the world to wait.”

“Actually--I’d rather speak to you about this, if that’s okay?”

His grandfather frowned. “Why? About what?”

“I just--I don’t want to mess up seeing him again by asking--”

“Come, let’s get you some tea and then you can talk about it,” Fingolfin said, softening.

Gil-galad nodded and allowed himself to be led off into a kitchen, where a young woman nodded to Fingolfin and poured out some water to heat up. They sat at a table in the next room, where he reached out and squeezed his shoulder reassuringly. 

“Now, what did you want to ask?”

“My mother; was she--was she okay, in the end?”

“That’s not what I was expecting you to ask.” He leant back in his chair, folding his arms in thought. “Last I heard, she left to live with her father’s side of the family. I assume that’s where she stayed.”

Gil-galad nodded. “What were you expecting me to ask?”

“About your father.”

“What about me?” They turned at the sound of Fingon’s voice. He looked...different. Older than he remembered, and sadder around the eyes, but his smile was unmistakable. Gil-galad wavered, trapped between his desire to rush forward and greet him and his duty to remain calm at all times. He got as far as standing up again, before realising he wasn’t ever going to figure it out. With a start, he clasped his hand to his mouth. He was crying. He knew it would happen, but he still surprised himself. 

Fingon walked over and wrapped his arms around him. “It’s okay; I’ve got you. I’m sorry.”

Taken aback, he pulled away. “Sorry? Wha--why?”

“For dying.” He looked...guilty. 

“That wasn’t your fault.” Gil-galad allowed himself to be pulled back into his father’s embrace. The memories that he had of him had been buried so deep, but he still found himself right at home, as if it was ingrained into his very being. A part of him that his mind couldn’t communicate with entirely recognised the embrace. 

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” his father repeated, “I’m not going again.”

 

\---

 

He never figured out who his biological father was; he didn’t care. As far as he was concerned, it didn’t mean anything to him, and keeping the information that he  _ did  _ have quiet didn’t matter much now that he wasn’t in charge of a nation. The peace was nice, and he was free to do as he liked. 

At first, he’d found himself at a loss. Indeed, most of his life before that had been dedicated to being a politician, and there hadn’t been time for much else. When Cirdan arrived, he had asked to go sailing with him again. He decided that it wasn’t for him. 

The only thing he ever really found himself good at was writing--not the beautiful, poetic accounts that Maglor or Elrond had their gifts in, but the standard record-keeping of every day. Boring things. Still, he wasn’t sure how he’d convert that into a hobby--it wasn’t as if he was needed to write out letters for Orodreth as he had when he was a child. 

“Lord Gil-galad?” He looked up and met eyes with a young woman with straw-blond hair pulled back into a thick braid; her eyes shone with excitement. “It  _ is  _ you, isn’t it?”

“I’m sorry, I’m not sure I remember you.”

She laughed. “That’s okay; you probably meet hundreds of kids a week; you let me write to you about my crackpot theory about your family.”

He recalled the small child that had approached him once at a festival, who had asked him who his father was. “I do remember you, actually. You’ve grown a lot.”

“Sorry for being such a weird kid.” She looked sheepish. “But, uh, I actually wanted to ask you another question--not about your family, don’t worry! I recently started working at an archive and I just happened--in the least weird way possible--to read some of your notes and, my lord, you write really well. I found myself sucked in. I was reminded of the speeches you used to make and, well, please stop me if I’m being too presumptuous, I was hoping, perhaps, that you’d teach me?”

“I’ll do it.”

“You see, I just really want to--you will?”

He nodded. “It’s a better use of my time than just wandering around at a loss for what to do.”

A wide grin spread across her face. “Thank you so much, sir.”

“Really, it’s no trouble.” He smiled. Something about it seemed cyclical; he had been taught by so many great men, whether they were his parents or not, and now he would offer himself as a mentor, to do the best he could at teaching this young woman. At the end of the day, it didn’t matter that there were hundreds of rumours about his true identity; it made no difference to him. There was still the fun of feeding into each story, but now the people he spoke to knew he was joking, and they joked alongside him.

The tapestry he wove was not one of his past, but one of his present, and the future of the people he loved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking by me for this ride! Please leave a comment if you enjoyed it and let me know if the ending wasn't _too_ unsatisfying. I wanted to leave it open-ended just because I don't think it should really matter who he is biologically; he's a good leader and a great guy, and that doesn't come from his DNA.


End file.
